


Over There and Back Again

by TrueRed



Series: There Lived a Hobbit [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dwarf Courting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Rebuilding Erebor, Slow Build, The Shire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 20:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 212,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueRed/pseuds/TrueRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo cannot say that his life in Erebor is unpleasant... but he admits it would be much better if a certain King Under the Mountain wasn't so elusive. Will it take a trip to the Shire and another unexpected adventure to bring them closer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I still do not own any of the characters, except the ones I made up. 
> 
> I am twisting the dates a little bit, nothing too drastic though, and it won't appear until much later.

**PROLOGUE**

 

Bilbo Baggins stretched his limbs and yawned drowsily, nuzzling languorously back into his pillow. Months after reclaiming Erebor, he had yet to get tired of waking up in a bed, especially when said bed was more comfortable than any he had ever slept in.

He tugged the blankets and furs all around his small frame and snuggled into a big, hobbit-shaped cocoon of warmth. There, sheltered by soft sheets and basking in the peaceful glow of being only just half-awoken, Bilbo wondered what time it could possibly be.

Of all the positive things that had come with the end of their journey, not having to wake up and be on the move at dawn was maybe the greatest. Not to say that Bilbo was lazying around, no, his journey across Middle Earth had been more than enough to keep him from ever being lazy again! But you couldn’t blame a respectable hobbit for enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet in the morning when said hobbit knew that his day would be filled with so many duties… and so many dwarves.

Oh, he had no real problem with dwarves, no, quite the contrary. He enjoyed watching them moving about, talking about a task or another they had accomplished the past week, a rumble of hearty laughter always at the ready down their throats to be unleashed at first chance. Most of them had come along with Dain’s army, straight from the Iron Hills, and had only heard tales about Erebor the Great. But it didn’t dampen their will to bring the city to its full glory the slightest bit, which mesmerized Bilbo and the hobbit felt humbled by their selflessness. Especially considering that most, if not all of them, wished to return to the Iron Hills once the rebuilding was over!

No, the dwarves themselves did not bother Bilbo, rather… it was just that dwarven culture was a very peculiar one, to his eyes. Everybody stamping around, more often than not in large crowds, exchanging harsh words in Khuzdul and brutally bumping foreheads was a bit unnerving, to say the least, as was the ever-present cacophony of hammers and chisels. And then, there was the way they wolfed down food and gulped down ale by the gallon… Bilbo could not bring himself to think about the food fights, and how he probably ought to give a lecture to that load of idiots for them to understand why rabbit stew was better off in their stomachs, instead of in their neighbors’ hair. But it would probably be a waste of time and saliva.

Bilbo sighed happily and rolled onto his back, his hands coming up to rest under his head as he looked at the ceiling with a smile. Had he been told the previous year at Bag End that he would find himself living with an army of dwarves under a mountain, he would have laughed and told that person that they should go easy on Old Toby. Then he would have gone inside and locked the door. Just in case.

After a last cat-like stretch, Bilbo kicked back his blankets and scooted over to sit on the edge of the bed. It was preposterous, really, the sheer size of it; you could have fit three dwarves in there, and not skinny ones! And not just the bed, but the rest of the chambers as well was designed to host way more important occupants than simple hobbits. To the far side of the room, there was a hearth where dying embers of what had been a merry fire the night prior were still glowing red. On either side of the hearth, two armchairs sat facing one another, only separated by a low wooden table that was currently laden with books that Bilbo had yet to read, but the hobbit knew for a fact that they would still be gathering dust for a little while. On the other side of the bed, next to a very fine mahogany closet, a door led to Bilbo’s study. It was maybe his favorite room, for it deeply resembled the one he had had, back in Bag End, down to the maps on the walls and the quantity of books crammed on the shelves, and it had also been a gift. He remembered Thorin’s face as the dwarf gave him a tour of his new chambers, leading him in the study with large hands over his eyes, and his booming laugh as he removed the appendages and his burglar let out a squeal of delight.

Bilbo smiled fondly at the memory, reaching out across the bed to grab his dressing gown. It had been the day Thorin had finally been able to walk without a cane or someone to support him, and now that Bilbo thought about it, the fierce hug he had given the King Under the Mountain that day might have been a little too much for his still tender wounds. But he couldn’t remember hearing Thorin complain about it, so it must have been alright.

As was customary, Bilbo looked down to check on his feet. He was pleased to notice that most of his hair was growing back. It was still timid, and he had long since given up on his hopes to get his thick coat of brown pelt back, but he was fairly sure that in a month or two, he would have enough curls on his feet for it to be acceptable – honorable even – by hobbit standards. Anything was better than naked, burn-scarred ankles, at any rate. But it would still be some time until the skin there allowed the former burglar to trot painlessly on rocks once more.

With a satisfied nod, Bilbo tied his dressing gown around his waist and hopped off the bed. He hummed appreciatively as he wriggled his toes on the thick rug; another gift from Thorin, made of soft white fur with darker stripes running across it – though it hadn’t been disclosed, Bilbo had a fair idea of where it came from. He winced however as his soles hit the cold floor; this, he was still getting used to. Without a fire to warm it up, the mountain would always be cold, but for now, he bore the cruel assault on his sensitive soles and eagerly padded over to the deep brown curtains that concealed the best feature in the room yet.

He pulled the heavy fabric aside and relished in the warm rays of sunlight that immediately assaulted his skin and bathed his face. In Erebor, a balcony was a rare commodity, only reserved for the highest members of dwarven society according to most, since it was thought of as a weak spot in the mountain’s powerful bulk. Which is why Bilbo had been deeply surprised to discover the wide ledge adorning the southern side of his rooms. He had learnt, some time later, that Thorin had it specially built with the hobbit in mind. All of the King’s effort to make Bilbo feel at home warmed his heart; although from time to time, he wondered if the dwarf wasn’t acting out of guilt for the way he had treated Bilbo at the end of their journey, and tried to make up for it by showering the hobbit with gifts.

Bilbo sighed as he leaned on the silver-streaked dark stone that had been chiselled into a thick guardrail, gazing thoughtfully at Dale in the distance. To be honest, he did not know where he and Thorin stood, lately. A King’s schedule was an extraordinary busy one, especially when said King had his whole kingdom to rebuild. When the day’s meetings and patrols were over, Thorin could still be found working in his study, scrolls scattered all about him – even on the ground, to Bilbo’s horror – and quill scratching away in the candlelight. Some nights, if he had some courage left and didn’t collapse right into bed, the hobbit would fetch a cup of tea from the kitchens and use it as an excuse to visit Thorin. Otherwise, several days could fly by without any news from the dwarven king.

Bilbo would always be greeted with a warm smile and a deep voice inquiring about his well-being. He would return a smile of his own and announce that he was well, and that he hoped that it was the same for the mighty King Under the Mountain. Thorin always snorted and accepted the offered tea with muttered thanks, his broad fingers lingering over Bilbo’s slender ones as the cup was passed from burglar to King. They would exchange a gaze, and the hobbit would marvel at the tenderness that could be found in those same eyes that had been darkened with greed and madness during the fiercest bouts of gold-sickness. But as he would struggle for something to say, Thorin would turn to his scrolls again, breaking the moment.

This was all Bilbo seemed to get from the King. Oh, of course, gazes and smiles were always welcome, as was the odd hug that could come out of a fortuitous encounter in the halls – and even, if Bilbo was particularly lucky, a light kiss to the forehead. But there was no trace of the passion of their first – and, so far, only – kiss from months before, in the tent. On his darkest evenings, usually after about five days of Thorin’s absence, Bilbo wondered if the dwarf had acted under the influence of the fierce fever that had ravaged his mind after his wounds were infected, and had simply forgotten that he had ensnared a hobbit’s heart. The mere thought pulled sharply at his chest and Bilbo would live through a very unpleasant night, no amount of furs seeming quite enough to ease the coldness he felt on the inside.

But it would just take another flashing grin from Thorin, and Bilbo would forget.  

“He’s just busy,” he said as his gaze wandered absently all over the plains surrounding the mountain. “That’s it. Just busy.”

A thunderous knock on his door almost had him toppling over the guardrail and down the side of the mountain. As he held his heart and tried to steady his breathing, a bellow came from the other side of the oaken panel. “Bilbo! Are you in there?”

Bilbo sighed as he recognized Kili’s voice and lack of manners. “Yes, I am,” he answered, padding back into his bedroom. “Don’t come in, though, I’m not dressed yet.”

There was an audible groan and suspicious grumbling about Hobbits and their silly modesty. Bilbo only chuckled and began sorting through his mahogany closet for clothes, trying to decide if the green waistcoat would look better with brown or grey trousers. “What is it you want, Kili?” he asked as he finally settled on the brown breeches and snatched a silver belt as well.

“Well, I’ve been told that you have some time off this morning, since Ori is sick and you can’t organize the library without him,” the prince said, and from the soft sounds that Bilbo’s ears picked up, the young dwarf was shuffling his booted feet. “I thought you would be glad for the company.”

“Let me guess,” Bilbo mused as he wriggled out of his sleeping clothes and slipped the trousers on. He frowned at the fastenings that were pulled a little too tight around the waist; maybe he had indulged a little too much in Bombur sumptuous desserts. “Fili has left with Thorin to attend to some task, possibly out of Erebor, and you are left wandering the halls alone like a lost soul without anyone to bother.”

Bilbo laughed when sudden silence filled the air, and he knew that he had nailed it. “Alright, you figured it out,” Kili groaned. “They have a meeting to oversee, or something like that. But! I assure you my intentions for seeking you out are completely respectable.”

“I am listening.” The buttons on the green waistcoat were tiny dragon heads, and Bilbo marvelled at the details on the silver ornaments. Whoever had made the garment was highly skilled.

“I wanted to know if you wished to come with me down to the Western Hall and see if we can find new tools for your garden.”

Bilbo froze, the oaken comb he had picked up in his washroom completely forgotten as he turned to the door. “Gardening tools?” He thought for a while and something clicked in his mind, prompting a beaming smile from his features. “Good gracious! Is it today?”

“It is, but if you waste any more time, there won’t be anything left! And I want honey cake.”

With a clear laugh and a promise to be quick, Bilbo hurried through his morning routine. He hastily combed his wild hair and threw on a green fur-rimmed jacket. How could he forget! He had waited for this moment for weeks, even buggering Thorin about it once or twice. And to think he had almost missed it!

Almost missed the first market in Erebor since the arrival of Smaug.

“I’m coming!” Bilbo announced as he snatched a few coins from a pouch on the bedside table and opened the door.

Kili, who had been leaning against the wall while waiting for the hobbit, straightened up and offered a smirk. “My, you are worse than a girl sometimes,” he joked. “If all Hobbits are like you, I’m glad we picked you and not a female to be our burglar!”

Bilbo snorted and gave the dwarf a playful swat. “Well, you could have picked my dear cousin, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She could have used the exercise… though she would have been appalled at your evident lack of manners, lad.”

Kili laughed and wrapped a companionable arm around Bilbo’s shoulder. “Considering everything you told me about her, she would have been appalled at everything, anyway.”

“You do sum it up pretty well.”

The two of them made their way down the great staircases and large passageways that led to Erebor’s lower halls, chatting lightly. Kili had great news; Fili’s eye was almost back to normal, the golden prince had even managed to read some words from a book the previous day with his good eye closed. However, the scar that ran from his hairline to his cheekbone, courtesy of a warg’s claws, he would keep for life.

“You ought to see how he shows it off,” Kili growled as they side-stepped to let a broad dwarf carrying an enormous anvil through. “His head is so swollen, I bet it couldn’t fit in your hobbit hole, back in the Shire. And I, of course, only get _that_.” The young prince made a harsh gesture toward his own chin, where a thin scar was drawing a neat line through hair, but still discreet enough to pass unseen by most. “Some useless thing that impedes my beard’s growth, on top of that.”

“Now, now, Kili, it looks fearsome, honestly,” Bilbo said as solemnly as he could, giving the dwarf a friendly pat. “Ladies all around Erebor must be in awe.”

Kili pouted like a dwarfling and Bilbo only gave a fond smile. The lad probably had no idea how close he had come to meeting Mahal first-hand… and it was certainly better this way. He had seen him and his brother stand protectively over Thorin’s lifeless form, swinging their weapons at whoever got a little too close, and roaring in pain as arrows and spears stabbed their battered bodies. He had seen them fall, dark blood obscuring their faces, and Bilbo’s heart had died a little that day at the thought that he might lose all three dwarves at the same time.

Their recovery had been slow, and most unpleasant, but the two young dwarves had healed quite nicely and now only had to bear with scars and memories that they wouldn’t forget anytime soon, not unlike most of the company.

Bilbo had been relieved to learn that their other companions had escaped the battle with their lives, though the price they paid for it differed for each dwarf. Some had suffered very little, by dwarven standards – Bofur had only had a sprained ankle to add to the obligatory cuts and bruises – but others had stayed alive at a heavier cost. Those were Ori and Gloin.

 The young scribe had lost his left hand to the orcs, his fingers shattered beyond repair under a huge mace, and Oin had had no choice but to cut the appendage off. Ori was dealing with a missing hand quite admirably, if Bilbo was any judge, but at times the dwarf could be found wincing and rubbing his mangled wrist. As for Gloin, well, a warg had decided that he would make for a nice snack and had lunged for his face. The red-haired axe-wielder had ducked to escape the fearsome fangs, but not really quickly enough. The beast had torn his ear off, along with a small chunk of his bearded jaw. Well, not so small after all; whenever Bilbo remembered walking in on Oin stitching his brother’s cheek close over his teeth again, he felt sick. The wound had healed as well as was possible, but the missing patch of beard would probably never grow back.

Then there was the usual array of battle wounds; Dwalin had had broken ribs, Dori had taken a sword to the thigh, Bifur an arrow to the shoulder, and so on. Everyone had made a full recovery and Bilbo never dwelled on what might have happened if they hadn’t for too long.

“Do you think Bofur and Bifur will be there?” Kili asked as he held one door open for Bilbo to walk through. “They were thinking about taking a stall, last week.”

“Well, I expect people from Dale will come over, people who have children,” Bilbo answered as they walked into the Entrance Hall and were immediately assaulted by the cries of thousands of Ravens. “I wager they’ll enjoy finding toys in the market.”

“Children? Bofur made little leather replicas of Smaug, I don’t think people will buy them for their kids but to wring the beast’s neck themselves everyday.” Kili smirked boyishly. “I was thinking of buying one for Uncle Thorin, as a joke.”

“I am not sure he would laugh, Kili.”

The Entrance Hall was particularly busy that day, what with dwarves running about carrying things and ravens flying in and out of Erebor. The great birds had returned massively to the dwarven kingdom, flying from Ravenhill with Roäc in the lead, taking on their former role of messenger from before Smaug arrived. They had built giant nests in the Entrance Hall, near the ceiling, and a day couldn’t pass by without a new egg hatching out and a tiny black beak greeting the world for the first time. Bilbo had gotten used to the large black birds roaming the kingdom to deliver messages, but he would still flinch when one of them unleashed a string of Westron. A dragon he could abide, but talking birds? That was pushing it.

Even though he was very fond of Roäc and always kept dried meat in his room for the old raven.

“So, did Thorin settle on a name for the market yet?” Bilbo asked, his eyes darting to the stables near the entrance, making a mental note to sneak an apple for his pony Snowball in the evening. It had been a while since he last took the lad out for a stroll. “I hope so, isn’t he supposed to give some sort of speech before lunch?”

“He is, and yes, he has settled on a name,” Kili grinned as they were only one door away from the Western Hall. “He is naming it the market of Armukhakkar, and it is to be held in Erebor once a week.”

“Well, that’s…” Bilbo cleared his throat. “That’s a good name, a very good dwarven name. Are you allowed to tell me what it means? And if you aren’t, please just tell me that he didn’t make good on his promise to name it “The Place Where You Buy Stuff”, as he intended.”

Kili barked out a laugh and gave the hobbit’s back a solid clap. “No, he didn’t call it like that! And you know that we trust you enough to teach you some Khuzdul, Bilbo. Maybe not all of it, you would need two hundred years for that, but you should feel free to ask what some words mean.” Bilbo grumbled at that; the company may be comfortable with a hobbit nosing around in Khuzdul dictionaries, but he knew for a fact that he would be frowned upon by dwarves from the Iron Hills. He knew most curse words, though.

“Anyway, Bilbo Baggins, I am proud to present…” Kili led Bilbo through an enormous stone arch and opened his arms wide, encompassing the Western Hall before them. “ _Armukhakkar Manarbul_! The Market of the Shire!”

Bilbo’s mouth fell open as his eyes tried to take in the whole market. But it was a very, very hard task, for there was scarcely one single corner of the great room that wasn’t laden with stalls or decorations. A thousand different colors painted the market, whether it was because of the sumptuous rolls of fabric at the tailor’s shop or the ripe fruit dangling from hooks in the back. Goodness, there was… there were even _flowers_! True, the vendors were Men and Women, but still, it was a very nice touch. There was a lively tune going on, courtesy of a merry band of dwarven musicians who were playing on a wooden platform in the middle of the stalls.

It was perfect.

Then Kili’s last words finally registered in Bilbo’s mind and he turned to the dwarf. “The… the Shire?” he stammered. “Why?”

“In your honor, of course,” Kili smiled gently. “Uncle Thorin sent out word for every vendor in the area, regardless of their trade, that they would be welcome here once a week. So there’s food, clothing, toys, flowers… He said that he had only encountered such markets in the Shire, and so he named it as a tribute to you and your kin.”

“That’s… very sweet of him,” Bilbo said, his eyes returning to the colorful stalls laden with goods. To be honest, all of this was beyond sweet. It was positively adorable coming from the King, and made little bubbles of warmth explode in the hobbit’s chest. Oh, that silly scoundrel, he hadn’t told Bilbo a single thing. Well, if Thorin thought he could get away that easily, he was sorely mistaken. There would two cups of tea and a couple pastries from the market awaiting the dwarf in the evening, along with good, proper thanks. “Armukhakkar, you said?”

“Absolutely. You are a natural, Bilbo!”

Kili and Bilbo walked off and among the stalls and general agitation that filled the Western Hall on this fine morning. It was a wonder to see everyone, Dwarves and Men alike, so cheerful and in high spirits. They all bowed respectfully to Kili, and more often than not Bilbo would find himself swept in a strong handshake as people thanked him profusely for his deeds. He was touched, and graced everyone with warm smiles, but felt relieved nonetheless when Kili saved him with a gentle but firm arm around his shoulders. He thanked Yavanna that he hadn’t come alone; he knew they meant well, but they tended to be a bit overwhelming.

“Look! I found Bofur and Bifur!” Kili exclaimed.

“Kili, I’m sure your Uncle taught you that pointing is rude… but yes, I see them.”

In front of the cousins’ stall, a small gathering of children from Dale was giggling and squealing in delight as Bifur gave them small firecrackers, setting a few off as Bofur laughed uproariously at the young ones thrilled cries. Before and around the two dwarves, toys of various shapes and sizes were laid out. Bilbo immediately spotted the already famous leather-Smaug on a shelf; reared up on its hind legs with its wings outstretched, the toy strongly resembled its deceased model. It even had red fabric flowing out of its mouth when you opened it in a parody of fire-breathing, Bilbo noted with some level of amusement.  Trust Dwarves to make the most of things, and Bofur, as it seemed, had his very own definition of irony.

Bifur was actually handing a leather dragon over to a young boy when he spotted Bilbo and Kili. He elbowed his cousin, who looked up from his little wooden horses and grinned. “Bilbo!” the dwarf with the floppy hat greeted warmly. “Haven’t seen you for days, lad!”

“Ah, yes, sorry, I guess I’ve been a bit busy,” the hobbit apologized. He took in the abundance of toys in the stall. “As you were, apparently.”

“Aye, business’s never been so good!” Bofur laughed, ruffling a young lad’s hair. “I kind of missed all the little ones, they’re a real joy to work for, y’know.”

Bifur muttered something in Khuzdul that had Bofur and Kili chuckling, but which meaning was lost on Bilbo. However, he understood partially what had been said when Bofur answered: “Aye, but I have yet to find a lady who can stand me for more than two hours, let alone convince her to give me kids.”

“Do not despair, Bofur,” Kili said as he patted the older dwarf’s shoulder. “When our people travels from the Blue Mountains to Erebor, I’m sure you will find what you are looking for.”

“By the way, how is this going?” Bilbo asked, his curiosity aroused. “Did we receive word from Ered Luin?”

Kili nodded. “The raven Uncle sent has returned. Dispositions are being taken for everyone to depart as soon as possible, but it might be a month or two before they are ready. Which is just as well, since the builders haven’t finished the habitations yet. Uncle is quite pleased.”

Suddenly, the lively music came to a stop and all eyes turned to something behind Bilbo. Puzzled, the hobbit turned around and his eyes instantly fell on a small balcony, carved out of the southern wall. It was lovely in itself, but what attracted Bilbo’s gaze was not the fancy guardrail or the thick vein of gold that ran under it, no.

It was the majestic dwarven King standing on it.

Thorin was clad in a splendid midnight blue coat, all rimmed with the purest white fur and engraved with silver runes. His large belt buckle was sporting black stones to match the beads in his hair. And to think that mane had once been cropped short by the Elvenking’s orders! It now reached past the King’s shoulders, long enough to be pulled back in an elegant ponytail if Thorin wished. But it was not the case that day; the dark strands flowed freely, some of them weaved into intricate braids. He was almost the same as the night he had entered Bag End; though, if Bilbo squinted, he could see the dwarf had more silver in his hair. None in his thick brush of a beard, however.

Thorin looked positively regal, with his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back, as he swept his blue gaze over the Western Hall. One could not deny that he had become every bit the King he was meant to be, the stone-carved crown on his brow only acting as confirmation.

Dwarves and Men alike fell silent as Thorin II Oakenshield opened his mouth and filled the hall with his rich baritone voice.

“My friends,” he began. “I am happy to have you all as guests on this very special day, and it gladdens my heart to see so many of you answered my call. Today, through your efforts, we celebrate the return of a kingdom’s most important asset: trading.” All of Thorin’s formal speeches had been in Khuzdul, but for the Men’s sake, he must have seen Westron as more fitting, and Bilbo was glad for it. “In honor of this blessed day, it is my greatest pleasure to invite you and your loved ones to a feast at noon, in the Main Hall. In the meantime,” Thorin said a little louder to cover the crowd’s enthusiastic cries, but there was a smile on his face, “in the meantime, I wish you all luck and I hope you enjoy this very first market of Armukhakkar!”

Shouts resonated all around Bilbo, both in Westron and Khuzdul, as the crowd cheered for the King. As roars of “Oakenshield! Oakenshield!” erupted from the marketplace, the hobbit shook his head and looked up at the dwarven King with a fond smile. Trust Thorin to spoil his people rotten every chance he gets.

A shiver ran down Bilbo’s spine as he caught the dwarf’s eyes, and it only worsened when said dwarf’s lips stretched into a large smile. Before Bilbo could repay him in kind, Thorin disappeared behind a red curtain.

“A feast! I suppose that’s why Bombur was so busy yesterday and this morning,” Bofur mused as Bifur nodded fiercely from behind. “I hope there’ll be roast chicken.”

“And smoked salmon! Oh, and cake, that’s always nice,” Kili nodded.

Bilbo’s stomach growled loudly at that, prompting a laugh from the dwarves around him and a blush to his cheeks. He hadn’t had any breakfast, and those oafs were talking about food! What did they expect, honestly?

As the three dwarves debated over what kind of food they would wolf down at the banquet, Bilbo’s ears strayed away and he found himself absently listening to conversations all around him.

“Dad, was that dwarf the King?” a small boy asked shyly.

“Yes, Reron, this is Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain,” a man answered. “He said we are welcome to eat here for lunch.”

“He’s nice!”

“That he is, child.”

“Can Mom come too?”

“Of course. Let’s go and fetch her, alright?”

“Yes Dad!”

Bilbo smiled softly as father and son walked away hand in hand. True, there was no telling what the future would hold for Thorin, but for now, the King was thoroughly loved.

As soon as he had been strong enough to sit up in his bed, the dwarf had sent for Bard the Bowman. His mind no longer suffering from the effects of the gold-fever, he had agreed to trade the Arkenstone for enough gold to rebuild Dale _and_ Esgaroth. He had even detached a few dwarves to help the men in their task. The elves, however, he had wanted nothing to do with at that time, and Bilbo could understand. Thorin had been willing to do right by the people of Lake-town, and repair the damage caused by Smaug’s fury because of him, but he had growled at the mere mention of those who had imprisoned him and cut off his hair.

It had taken about three months, and a large amount of coaxing from Bilbo, for the dwarf to admit begrudgingly that the elves of Mirkwood had fought honorably and had been a great help to the wounded, including himself. He wouldn’t frown upon them if they entered Erebor, same as he would not avoid their forest like the plague, but he would seek no further friendship between his people and Thranduil’s. They had joined forces against a common foe, won the battle, and that was the end of it. And if Bilbo felt the urge to have a cup of tea with the tree-shaggers, it would be useless to send Thorin an invitation. The King had spoken.

Bilbo chuckled at the memory. The word “tree-shagger” in Thorin’s mouth never failed to make him laugh.

“…lbo?”

Kili’s voice brought him back to the present and the hobbit blinked. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I was wondering: which Smaug do you prefer? The leather one or the wooden one?”

“Am I allowed to answer that our quest made me hate dragons, regardless of their shape and size?”

Kili huffed. “Come on! Which one do you think Uncle will like best?”

“For the last time, Kili, Thorin would like neither.”

“Neither what?”

Bilbo whirled around and narrowly escaped bumping into a massive chest. He looked up timidly, and sure enough, a pair of clear blue eyes stared right back at him. There was a soft glow in Thorin’s eyes, but also a glint of puzzlement as he tried to figure out what Bilbo and his nephew had been talking about before he made his presence known.

If the King had looked good from afar, up close he was the perfect depiction of magnificence. His hair was neatly combed and braided, and rested upon his shoulders with grace, the beads making soft clinking sounds as they brushed against the silver runes on his coat. His grey trousers disappeared inside polished black boots which, as was Thorin’s preference, were sporting silver toe claps. His proud bearing made Bilbo’s stomach flutter a little, and to think it was only due to his skipping breakfast wouldn’t be entirely true.

A flash of golden appeared over Thorin’s shoulder as Fili ran past his uncle and into Kili. “Brother!” he cried out. “You are going to be so jealous!”

“What? Got a new scar that I wasn’t aware of?” the younger dwarf said gruffly.

Fili rolled his eyes, his hand instinctively coming up to scratch at the angry red mark across his right eye. “Don’t be daft! Today Uncle had to meet with an envoy of elves from Mirkwood, you know how they took it upon themselves to clean the forest free of spiders, right?”

Kili nodded, his face scrunched up as he tried to figure out what cause he had to be jealous, and Bilbo chanced a glance at Thorin. Meeting with the elves, eh? Well, the King didn’t look like he was ready to smash walls or tear his face apart, so either the meeting had gone exceedingly well, or Thorin’s opinion of elves was improving. Bilbo settled on the first option.

“What of it?” Kili shrugged.

“Well they came to give Uncle a quick report, and my presence wasn’t mandatory so I was made to wait in the corridor with the messenger’s escort.”

“Again, what of it?” Kili’s arms crossed over his chest, a sign that he was starting to feel annoyed by his brother beating around the bush.

But Fili just grinned and wriggled his eyebrows. “A very _female_ escort, brother.”

“Oh. Oh!” Kili’s eyes widened and he gave Fili a swift swat to the head. “And of course, you didn’t call me! You selfish whelp, was it so hard to send a raven? I would have come, I would-” From the corner of his eye, the young dwarf saw Thorin’s eyebrow raise in suspicion, and his voice wavered some. “I would have… helped you suffer through the dreadful ordeal of being alone with those creatures. To think that you waited for Uncle on your own, I am so sorry!”

“And let us all thank Mahal that you are a warrior, and not a minstrel, dear nephew,” Thorin said. His thin lips were pressed together, but Bilbo could feel a smile tugging at them underneath. “You would not convince a single soul with your stories.”

Thorin was indeed in a very good mood if he could talk about Kili’s attraction to elves with his mouth devoid of any foam, and even joke about it.

Still, Kili didn’t push his luck and gave his uncle an uncertain smile before he tugged Fili in front of Bifur and Bofur’s stall and began to whisper in his brother’s ear. About the elf maidens or the leather dragon, Bilbo wasn’t sure.

“I trust you have been well, Bilbo.”

The hobbit turned his attention back to Thorin and smiled. “Yes, yes. Ori and I have been making great progress in the library. Fortunately, Smaug cared little for books, and a nice amount of them is in perfect state, if a bit dusty. Some of them are quite old too, your grandfather had a fine taste for literature.”

“Yes, he was quite passionate when it came to history, and lineages.” Thorin’s eyes quickly flicked to his nephews over Bilbo’s shoulder, but just as swiftly returned to the hobbit. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I wish to apologize.”

Bilbo scoffed. “Nonsense, Thorin! You have a kingdom to rebuild, you can’t spend all your time prattling away with a hobbit about silly things, what would your people think?” His own heart ached as the words left his mouth, but as bitter as they sounded, there was a ring of truth to them.

Thorin’s eyes dropped a little and focused somewhere by Bilbo’s elbow. The King muttered something about not finding Bilbo silly at all, slipping a hand in a side pocket to finger something. The former burglar was instantly reminded of his old magic ring and absently patted his own pocket; the small item was there, to his relief.

When Thorin met his eyes once more, Bilbo could swear there was a glint of hesitation in the blue orbs.

“Bilbo, may I speak with you?” he asked, and his voice was definitely lower than before.

“We are speaking, unless I am mistaken,” Bilbo pointed out with a smile.

“I mean, in private?”

“Oh. Very well then, lead on, Your Highness. But if you make me late for the feast and there is no roasted boar left, you will be very sorry indeed,” the smaller creature warned to cover his surprise and excitement.

Thorin snorted but made no comment as he turned around and began walking alongside Bilbo, reining in his strides to match the hobbit’s shorter ones. Bilbo happily trotted along, enjoying the King’s presence and he almost giggled at the prospect of an opportunity to be alone with the dwarf, even for a few minutes. Maybe he could sneak in a touch or two; Thorin’s hair looked particularly soft today, and Bilbo wondered how it would feel to run his fingers through the silken strands.

Just as they had done with Kili, Dwarves and Men gave Thorin deep bows as he passed them, but thankfully nobody tried to clap Bilbo’s back or crush his hand, and for that he was grateful. Thorin smiled and nodded at everyone, slipping in a kind word in Westron or Khuzdul when somebody congratulated him.

Bilbo didn’t fight the fond smile that came to his lips when a little girl, no more than four year-old by Men’s standards, shyly walked up to the King and offered him a handful of daisies. The flowers were a bit crushed, and the stems slightly crooked – the child must have carried them all the way from Dale – but Thorin got down to a knee and thanked the little lady with a bright smile, tucking the flowers in his belt in plain sight. The little girl shuffled her feet for a second or two before she gathered her courage and pecked Thorin’s cheek.

Before the dwarf or anyone could react, the young once turned on her heels and disappeared among the crowd, her cheeks a deep red.

“Daddy!” her little voice shouted almost immediately from somewhere. “I kissed the King! His beard’s itchy!”

Thorin chuckled as he regained his feet and Bilbo was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to hug the dwarf into oblivion. Thorin’s soul was healing; slowly, one day at a time, the King was getting rid of his past fears and his painful memories, aiming to build a better future for himself and his kin. He would smile more openly, and even laugh sometimes, though those occasions were rarer.

Last time had been during a feast, when Dwalin and Bofur had Bombur drink so much ale that they convinced him he was a fairy. But there hadn’t been any enchanting grace when the stout dwarf launched himself from the table, flapping his arms as though they were delicate wings, before Dori was squashed by an enormous amount of non-fairy meat. Bombur’s “flight” and Dori’s squeaks had sent Thorin into fits of laughter that had left him breathless and clutching at Bilbo for support.

Good times. Good times.

Thorin led Bilbo out of the crowd and they soon reached the arch that separated the Western Hall from a string of corridors. They were about to cross it when someone shouted from behind.

“Cousin!”

Both dwarf and hobbit turned around to see none other than Dáin II Ironfoot making his way over to them, closely followed by a smaller dwarf who ought to be a guard. While not as regally dressed as Thorin, the dwarf was a fine sight, all decked out in dark red silk and golden clasps in his hair. Large golden beads shaped his long black beard into intricate braids that marked him as the Lord of the Iron Hills.

Thorin owed his younger cousin a great amount of things. For starters, if it had been for Dáin and his five hundred combat-trained warriors, the outcome of the Battle of Five Armies may have been dramatically different. Then, while Thorin recovered from his injuries, Dáin had acted as a Steward and nursed the fragile flame that was Erebor into a full-sized fire, until Thorin was well enough to turn it into a volcano of activities. Dáin had watched over the first phases of rebuilding, making sure to stay on good terms with the Men from Dale and already sending out ravens for potential trade partners all over Rhovanion.

As Thorin slowly recovered, his kingly duties were gradually handed to him. As soon as he could sit up, Dáin had reports and scrolls brought to him for appraisal. The day the healers allowed Thorin to walk a few hours a day with the help of a cane, Dáin took his cousin on a small patrol in the Halls and showed him the new Throne Room. And immediately after Thorin threw his cane to the fire, Dáin was the one to deposit the stone crown on his brow and insert the Arkenstone over the seat from which the King Under the Mountain would rule.

“Dáin,” Thorin acknowledged with a nod, smiling at his younger cousin. “How are you faring?”

“I am well, thank you,” the black-haired dwarf answered. “I hope the same can be said about you. Oh, and you as well, Master Baggins,” he added, bowing low when he noticed the hobbit’s presence.

Bilbo smiled and thanked Dáin. The Lord of the Iron Hills was one of those dwarves who carried a strong bearing about them, utterly charming and bordering on irresistible. One of those dwarves would could talk you into doing everything they wanted, if they set to the task, and it was impossible to refuse them anything.

“Do you need anything?” Thorin asked politely, then frowned. “You are not already leaving for the Iron Hills, are you?”

“No, no, cousin, I am not leaving just yet,” the burly dwarf chuckled. “I merely wished to introduce you to my niece, Dihla, daughter of Girá, who has just arrived from the Iron Hills.”

Dáin stepped aside as the dwarf that Bilbo had initially thought to be a guard walked forth and bowed before Thorin. If it weren’t for the beard that was a little too soft and the – rather generous, not that Bilbo was staring or anything - bosom that adorned her front, the maiden could easily pass as a male dwarf. Her golden hair was pulled up into a bun, with only a few braids running behind her ears and onto her shoulders. Her forest green eyes were looking at Thorin with the same kind of reverence Bilbo had seen in other subjects, but her smile… her smile was maybe a little too sweet, and caused the hobbit’s innards to lurch unpleasantly. He frowned; he hadn’t even thought of the feast, why would his stomach protest?

Quite oddly, Thorin’s bright charming smile did nothing to settle Bilbo’s discomfort. If anything, it made it worse.

“Welcome to Erebor, my lady,” the King said as he took Dihla’s hand and kissed its back. “I hope you find it to your liking.”

Dihla’s smile widened – if such a thing was even possible – as Thorin released her hand. “Oh, I already do, Your Highness,” she answered. “I already do.”

“You must be tired after such a journey, I trust arrangements have been made and you have been given sleeping quarters?” Thorin asked, but his although his eyes were still on Dihla, his question was directed at Dáin.

“Not yet, we were planning to take care of it right after the feast. Speaking of which,” Dáin said and there was a glint in those brown eyes, a signal that Ironfoot’s magic was about to be unleashed, “I thought we might attend together, the three of us. What do you think?”

“Yes, why not,” Thorin agreed, a little too quickly perhaps. “I shall meet you in the Main Hall, then.”

“Ah… but noon is upon us,” Dáin drawled, his features turning concerned suddenly. “Shouldn’t you be the first to arrive, to greet the guests?”

“I am sure nobody will hold it against me if I am but a few minutes late,” Thorin assured. Already, he was taking steps to stand beside Bilbo. “Why don’t you go ahead? I will be there shortly.”

“I am sure you will, however,” at this point Dáin reached out and grasped Thorin’s forearm, a warm smile blooming on his lips, “don’t you hunger for their calls? Do you remember, when we stood side to side, on the day of your coronation? Don’t you want to hear them shout our names out loud again?”

“Dáin, I don’t-”

“ _Oakenshield! Ironfoot! Oakenshield!”_  Dáin mimicked.

“Very well,” Thorin said a little louder to cover his cousin’s enthusiasm. “I am coming with you. Give me a few seconds.”

“Of course, cousin. Master Baggins.” Apparently satisfied, Dáin and his niece walked away with a last nod in the hobbit’s direction.

Thorin turned to face Bilbo and his expression was one of regret. “I am sorry,” he said mournfully. “I dragged you away from the market only to abandon you here…”

“It’s perfectly fine, Thorin,” Bilbo smiled as he patted the dwarf’s arm, hoping that he sounded confident enough and not as disappointed as he felt. “I was hungry anyway. I am sure this matter can wait until the feast is finished, am I right?”

Thorin frowned and opened his mouth but no sound came out, and his jaw eventually snapped shut. His hand was once more in his pocket, and it was clear from Bilbo’s point of view that he was twisting something in his fingers. The hobbit had done it so many times with his old ring that there was no hiding it from him.

Finally Thorin’s frown disappeared and he sighed. “You are right,” he relented. “This matter can wait. I will see you at the feast then?”

“I am a hobbit, where else should I be?” Bilbo scoffed.

With a fond smile, the tall dwarf wrapped the hobbit in a warm hug and buried his nose in the honeyed curls. Bilbo grinned and embraced Thorin as well, taking in the scent of the King. It was a strange mix of leather oil and granite, quite unusual but not exactly unpleasant. The warmth seeping through the heavy blue coat felt wonderful as well, and Bilbo almost whined when Thorin stepped back and it was taken away.

Blue met hazel when their gazes mingled, and with a last parting squeeze of Bilbo’s shoulders, Thorin was off to join Dáin and Dihla.

The moment they were out of sight, Bilbo’s shoulders sagged miserably and he let out a disgruntled sigh. There. Another chance to spend some time with Thorin, not matter how little, gone to the winds. It seemed like he was doomed to never sort out what exactly was going on between the two of them. And the way Thorin had smiled at Dihla…

Bilbo shuddered and willed the memory away as he made his way to the market, his step visibly heavier than it was moments before in Thorin’s company. He would fetch the brothers and drag them to the feast, yes, that sounded like a good plan.

Maybe filling his stomach would ward off some of the emptiness he felt inside his chest. But somehow, he doubted it.


	2. The Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank KuroCyou for this amazing art of the epilogue of "A Dwarf's Pride", it really made my day! Go and have a peek, it's really beautiful!   
> http://kurocyou.tumblr.com/post/75734136929/sketch-based-on-a-scene-from-the-epilogue-ofthis
> 
> Aaaaand on to the new chapter!

 

Bilbo was not short-tempered nor was he easily irritated. But when Kili tried to snatch another sausage from his plate, the threatening growl slipped through his gritted teeth with surprising ease.

“Keep your paws to yourself,” he hissed, pulling his plate away and out of the hungry dwarf’s reach. “The buffet is right over there, get your own food.”

“But it’s so far away, and I’m famished,” Kili complained, scooting closer on the bench to Bilbo.

“Back when you were gnawing on roots in Mirkwood, I reckon you were famished. I’m certain you are in no such state now.” Bilbo shooed the dark-haired dwarf away, only to feel the weight of his plate lighten suddenly. He whirled around just in time to see Fili cramming an egg in his mouth, and then try to look innocent. “Fili! You are supposed to be the wiser one!”

“So I have been told,” the golden-haired dwarf mouthed around the food, taking a seat on the other side of Bilbo. “But I brought something to trade.”

Fili slid two tankards across the table and wrapped his hands around a third one, that he brought to his lips with gusto. Kili followed suit, but Bilbo took a tentative sip and was relieved to taste only ale. Last time he had drunk a tankard of dwarven mead, he had suffered from a massive headache for two days straight and the company’s mocking for two weeks. He had all but holed himself up in the library from dawn to dusk the following week, hoping to escape the dwarves’ jibes, and had had to face a very angry Thorin one evening. The King, apparently, had received news that Bilbo was missing and was in the process of tearing the mountain apart to find him.

Bilbo liked to think of it as romantic. Too bad that Thorin’s snarls had scared him out of his hobbit skin, ruining the moment.

The former burglar took advantage of the brothers’ mouths being currently occupied by their tankards of ale to sweep his eyes over the Main Hall. Pretty much as everything had been since Thorin’s coronation, the feast was a grand affair; bigger than any he had known back in the Shire, including Bilbo’s mother’s coming of age party which, according to her siblings, had been the talk of Hobbiton for months.

In the back, closest to the kitchens, a large table took up most of the northern wall, laden with enough food to feed the entire Took family for a week – a hobbit week, and that meant seven meals a day. Roast boar, chicken and deer kept the smoked salmon and potatoes company, scattered over the large expanse of wood along with whole cheeses and golden pies. Ale flowed from enormous barrels near the table, and the three dwarves who had been unfortunate enough to be responsible for filling tankards were a bit overwhelmed. Not to mention soaked to the bone.

The moment a dish was finished, another swiftly took up the vacated spot. From poultry to rabbit via lamb stem, a plethora of Erebor’s reawakening hunting grounds’ assets was offered to the guests. Unsurprisingly, there was a dramatic lack of green food, but this was a dwarven feast. While Bilbo could convince Bombur to cook carrots from time to time, he hadn’t expected any effort to be made for such a grand and definitely dwarven occasion. It didn’t really matter, anyway; the hobbit was quite happy with his plate of sausages, eggs and bread.

When it wasn’t being plundered by two meddlesome brothers, that is.

The same small band of musicians that had been playing in the market was now filling the Hall with a slow yet hearty tune, to accompany the feast without being a bother to conversations. And since most of those conversations took place amongst dwarves, Bilbo had a hard time hearing the music, let alone appreciate it.

The hobbit was considering getting up to fill his plate once more – thanks to Kili, he had only had one bite of sausage – when Bofur sat across from him with a cheerful grin and a plate piled high with stew and roast potatoes. “Durin’s beard, Bombur once again outdid himself!” the toy maker exclaimed, sweeping his arms in a gesture meant to engulf the whole room. “Look at that! I’ve never seen so much food at the same time!”

“You forget Bilbo’s pantry, back in Bag End,” Fili chuckled as he sipped at his ale.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Now, you are just exaggerating,” he mumbled. The entire content of his pantry had been wolfed down in the course of one single evening, by twelve dwarves and a wizard. Hardly the same as the feast they were currently enjoying.

_Enjoying_ might be a bit too optimistic a word, at least for Bilbo. No matter how hard he tried not to, the hobbit found his eyes wandering across the room every five minutes or so in search of a certain King Under the Mountain. Each time he finally spotted Thorin, the dwarf’s face was supporting a warm smile. But each time, it was directed at Dihla, niece of Dáin, and Bilbo felt a stinging sensation in his stomach. He would tear his eyes away and swear to just leave Thorin alone, that whoever the King spoke with was his own business, only to do the exact same thing minutes later.

To distract his mind, at least for a moment, Bilbo turned to Bofur who had tucked in his meal. “So how was business, at the market?” he asked, small talk being the only way he had found to shake the sight of Dihla’s hand on Thorin’s forearm from his thoughts. “I trust you had a pleasant morning?”

“Oh, aye! I wasn’t expecting to see so many young lads and lasses, though,” Bofur answered after a gulp of ale. “No dwarflings, of course, only children of Men. And from what I saw, I’ll have to craft at least a thousand leather dragons before convoys start arriving from Ered Luin if I don’t want to run out!”

“And where is Bifur? Don’t tell me he skipped the feast to get started on those dragons?”

“No, he stayed with the little ones,” Bofur said with a small smile. “Bifur… ever since he lost the ability to talk properly, he started developing a very special link with children. They are curious about the axe in his head, they are not put off when they don’t understand what he says, overall they accept him the way he is much more than we ever will.”

“What do you mean?” Fili asked with a slight frown. “We never rejected Bifur.”

“I didn’t mean that, lad,” the toy maker corrected. “We adults always take it easy on Bifur, we never put any strain on him. Bombur and I… well, I’m ashamed to say that we still pity Bifur on some level. But kids? Kids are not afraid to be blunt, and I think that’s what Bifur needs. Less tact and more honesty.”

Fili nodded slowly and dropped his eyes to his ale. This was true, Bilbo thought, everyone had at least once laid eyes on Bifur and felt sorry for the unfortunate dwarf. The hobbit himself, to his greatest shame, confessed that he had avoided the dwarf on some occasions, at the beginning of their long quest to reclaim Erebor. Language barrier put aside, Bilbo had felt uneasy around Bifur and could often be found squirming when they happened to sit next to one another. The end of their journey had made things better and seeing Bifur bury himself in his craft had proved Bilbo that the dwarf was not an empty shell, and was perfectly able to function properly. It was ridiculous, since the hobbit had seen Bifur fight just as well as the next dwarf, but it had taken a batch of carefully carved horses for Bilbo to see him in a whole new light.

He wordlessly accepted another tankard when it was pushed into his hands and took a good sip, if only to wash away his embarrassment for the way he had acted towards Bifur. He made a mental note to spend more time with the dwarf and take an interest in his trade – dwarves, he had learnt, were very fond of their crafts and were highly pleased when someone asked about them. He had found out about this fact very early on, when he had asked Bombur about his spectacular seasoning one evening, somewhere in the Lone-Lands. He hadn’t expected the large dwarf to puff up and boast for an hour, but that’s what happened.

A shame, really, that Thorin didn’t have a particular craft that defined him, other than being the rightful heir of Durin. And Bilbo wasn’t sure you could compliment someone on that.

Again, his thoughts drifted to the King, and his eyes unconsciously followed. It was fortunate that he had no more ale in his mouth when he spotted his target, for Bofur would have probably been copiously sprayed.

Thorin was laughing… with Dihla and two new females.

The new additions were dressed in finery and had beautiful, long red hair all braided and riddled with golden clasps. If the light dusting on their chins was any indication, they were probably considerably younger than Dihla. They were bolder too – or just more reckless – for they stood far too close to Thorin. But while the King usually didn’t take well to people invading his personal space without his consent, Thorin didn’t look like he minded the slightest bit.

Something black and dangerous rumbled low in Bilbo’s belly. It had taken him weeks, _weeks_ , for the King to finally acknowledge his very presence, and even longer to be allowed to sit less than two feet away from Thorin. What in Durin’s name – and Bilbo only appealed to dwarven oaths when he was really upset – gave those three the _right_ to stand so close to Thorin without so much as a warning glare?

And why did that insufferable dwarf look so happy about it?

The beast that was growling in Bilbo’s tummy deflated and curled up in a whimpering ball. The hobbit snatched Kili’s tankard, ignoring the archer’s protests as he drowned his groan in a large gulp of ale. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could forget Thorin altogether for the rest of the feast, but then Kili spoke up.

“I heard a small convoy from the Iron Hills arrived this morning.”

“Aye,” Bofur nodded, finishing off the last of his potatoes in a hearty mouthful. “Mostly lasses, wives and such. No dwarflings though, not yet.” The black-haired dwarf turned around to search the room, and grinned. “I see most of them already rounded up on our good King. Some just don’t have any time to lose, I guess.”

A question was burning the back of Bilbo’s throat, and as though he tried his very best to reign them in, words fled his mouth.

“What do you mean?” To his credit, he had managed to sound casual and just a bit curious.

Bofur turned back to his friends and winked. “Well, I reckon a good deal of pretty lasses would not mind adding “Queen Under the Mountain” to their names, if you see what I mean.”

Bilbo swallowed bitterly. It was worse than he thought. “So…  Thorin might ask for one of these dwarrowdams’ hand in marriage soon?” he asked anxiously, his tongue tasting ash in his mouth.

The three dwarves around him burst out laughing and Kili slapped Bilbo’s back, sending the hobbit’s nose into his half-full tankard. He blinked and gave his companions a puzzled look. He had no idea he had said such a funny thing…

Bofur was the first to recover and he stifled his chuckles long enough to speak. “I keep forgetting that you are not entirely accustomed to dwarven culture, Bilbo. No, you see, marriage won’t happen any time soon.”

“Why? Has Thorin taken an oath to remain single, or something?” Bilbo asked, and he wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or even more aggravated.

“Of course not, lad. But Dwarves are very… let’s say we are very picky when it comes to choosing a mate.” Bofur cleared his throat, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We love once, only once, and we spend our whole life looking for this special person, our One. Lucky are those who find their Ones before their lives are over.”

Bilbo stared hard at the hatted dwarf.  He knew his mouth was open, but he was too dumbstruck to care. “You mean most of you don’t find your… Ones, is it?”

“Aye.”

“But then… you live your whole life all on your own, without anyone by your side?”

“Some exceptions can be made for young ones. Meaningless romps, if they are not performed on a regular basis, are not heavily frowned upon.” At this, Bofur winked at Fili, who suddenly found the bottom of his empty tankard worthy of his highest attention. “But after a dwarf comes of age, traditions must be observed. Especially among royalty.”

“What kind of traditions?” Bilbo found himself asking, curious in spite of everything. This was one aspect of dwarven culture that he had yet to discover. He hadn’t encountered any book in the library on this specific topic.

“Well, if a dwarf does wishes to court his One, or even if his intended is not his One, for that matter-”

“It can happen, but it’s fortunately very rare,” Fili piped in, and Kili nodded with a slight shudder.

“- several steps are to be respected. Dwarven courting is known for being a very long and tedious business. Why, I believe Gloin spent two years courting his wife before he married her.”

“T-two years?” Bilbo sputtered. That was amazingly long, even by dwarven standards. In the Shire, he had seen complete strangers become a wedded couple in the course of a single week!

Bofur nodded. “Aye, but she was just playing hard to get, our ladies tend to do that.” Both Fili and Kili snickered on either side of Bilbo. “Female dwarves are so few and far between that they are usually the ones to pick whoever they want to marry, if they wish to marry that is. Males just have to bend to their choices and bear with it. After all, happy lasses are more likely to produce strong dwarflings. We can’t afford to ignore that.”

Bilbo’s attention returned to Thorin, who was speaking with Dihla. Could it be that the King had no choice but to marry and have heirs? _I thought Fili and Kili were his heirs…_

“Now where was I? Ah yes, courting.” Bofur finished off his ale and gratefully handed the empty tankard over when Kili offered to refill it. “When dwarves want to make their affections known, they ask their intended for permission to court them. Then, there are several steps to be followed until finally the suitor asks for the intended’s hand in marriage, which is either granted or denied.”

“What are those steps?” Bilbo inquired, tearing his eyes from Thorin.

“Oh, there are no specific rules about it, just vague guidelines. Gift-giving, shows of strength, crafting abilities, and so on,” Bofur said with a gesture of his hand. “I wouldn’t want to bore you. They are just trials to test the bond between both parties and ensure that the decision to marry, if it is made at all, is well thought out and not brash.”

“And females tend to drag it out, just to see how far males are willing to go,” Fili snorted, and Bilbo bit his lip to refrain his urge to ask the young dwarf if he spoke from past experience.

Bofur chuckled softly. “Some of them do, right. But some others are willing to rush through the steps, if they are certain that they have found their One. I’m sure your mother told you how she came to marry your father?”

The blond dwarf nodded and Bilbo tilted his head to the side curiously. He had never heard anyone in the company talk about Fili and Kili’s father, not even the brothers themselves. He was suddenly very eager to hear a story and, at the same time, learn a bit more about Thorin’s nephews.

“What happened?” the hobbit asked, supporting his head on one hand.

“Well, first you have to know that lady Dís was but a child when Smaug attacked Erebor, with only ten winters to speak for. She became Thorin’s most prized treasure on the road, and he struggled to take care of her and his brother, Frerin, who was a little older than Dís but not by much. He spent years protecting her, ensuring she was safe and dispatching anyone who wished to harm her. So, a few years after they settled down in the Blue Mountains, seeing courting braids in his sister’s hair was quite a shock for poor Thorin. He hadn’t even realized Dís had come of age.”

Bilbo smiled a bit at this; he could almost see the look of bewilderment on Thorin’s face as he rounded a corner and discovered his sister. “He didn’t take it well, did he?”

“Not a bit. See, nobody can blame him, really. His brother Frerin had died a few years before at the Battle of Azanulbizar, and he was still feeling the loss keenly, I guess. He was afraid to lose his sister as well, and didn’t take well to some ruffian courting her.”

“I believe Uncle called him an ill-mannered idiot, or so Mother told me,” Fili corrected.  

“Aye, that sounds like him. The two of them couldn’t cross paths without hissing at one another, and more often than not they exchanged more than words. Why, one day I heard someone scream in the mines and I thought a miner was stuck or somethin’. Turns out it was only Thorin and Víli brawling it out in one of the wagons. I was afraid to get caught in if I tried to separate them, but I didn’t have to in the end. Dís arrived and punched the living daylights out of them, yelling at them in front of everyone and all. From that day on, Thorin and Víli were civil to one another, and your parents married two months later, with Thorin’s half-hearted blessin’.”

That was a more acceptable length of time to be courting, Bilbo thought. By hobbit standards, at any rate. “Did it get better after they married? Thorin’s behavior, I mean,” he added.

“Not right away. But our King softened when Fili arrived, and by the time Kili was born to this world he fully accepted Víli as part of the family.”

Bilbo turned his head towards Fili. “I would very much like to meet your father.”

But the smile that the golden-haired dwarf offered him was laced with sadness. “I am afraid you won’t have the occasion. Hobbits have no access to the Halls of Mahal.”

“Whatever do you… Oh.” As realization settled in, Bilbo felt his shoulders drop. He had a knack for being unaware of the thin ice he was treading on, and often found himself soaked and chilled to the bones. His eyes flicked from Fili to his mug; he itched to ask what had happened to Víli, but he knew this was probably prying and it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Fili, however, seemed to understand the unspoken question and chose to answer it. “He was slain in battle three years after Kili was born. Ambushed by orcs. Uncle carried his body back to the Blue Mountains where he was buried.”

Bilbo nodded and didn’t ask for further details if the young one wasn’t willing to give them. He wanted to ask if Dís had found another mate, but he refrained. Deep down, he knew the answer. Losing your One… Bilbo didn’t even want to dwell on this. He had come quite close to losing his mind, back when Thorin lied in a bloody mess at Azog’s feet, and he didn’t know what fate would have befallen him had the King died of his wounds.

The mere thought of it sent a shiver down the hobbit’s spine, and he pushed it away.

Kili’s return with the ale proved to be the best distraction of all.

 “I’ll tell you, those ladies are completely bonkers,” the dark-haired dwarf exclaimed as he deposited a whole new set of tankards on the table, with enough force to send a bit of foam flying. “They are asking Uncle Thorin questions that are way too personal and invasive!”

“Do tell,” Fili nudged, a malicious smirk on his lips. He had shaken his previous sadness away with remarkable ease, and his brother was none the wiser. It amazed Bilbo, how the blond swordman always put up a brave front whenever his younger sibling was around.

“Questions about our quest, where we went, what Smaug was like, and if Uncle was injured.” Kili sat down heavily on Bilbo’s right with an exasperated sigh. “Durin’s beard, one of them actually asked if he would be willing to show her the scars!”

“Sounds like Uncle is having a great time,” Fili chuckled, his eyes travelling to Thorin. What he saw only increased his mirth. “Look, his left hand is twitching. I thought this was a tic he only associated with elves.”

Bilbo reluctantly glanced at Thorin, unwilling to believe the dwarf was not enjoying the female attention he was lathered with. But sure enough, he caught the hint of despair concealed by the blue orbs when the King’s eyes flicked his way, and the charming smile faltered for a second. Which, nevertheless, was all it took for Bilbo to understand that Thorin was not particularly happy with his predicament.

“Looks like he could use a bit of rescuing,” Fili said casually.

Bilbo let out a noncommittal hum, and a few seconds lapsed by before he realized that his companions had fallen silent… and were staring at him quite pointedly.

“What? What are you… Oh no. No, no, no. Don’t look at me like this, I-I can’t, I mean I won’t…” the hobbit stammered, feeling his cheeks heat up almost immediately. When his poor attempt at refusal failed, he let out a pained groan. “Why me?”

“Because you are, out of the four of us, the bravest male,” Fili grinned.

“And by far!” Kili added with a mischievous smirk.  “You riddled a dragon! What could three helpless dwarrowdams possibly do to you?”

Bilbo bit back a comment about how those three were taller than he was and, given what he knew about Dwarves, hardly helpless. He would not be able to talk them out of this, he was certain, but if he was completely honest with himself, tearing Thorin away from the females didn’t sound like an unpleasant task.

The hobbit finished his tankard – his third one now, and maybe that was the reason why he worked up the nerve to get up – and started to make his way over to the King and his admirers. He was vaguely aware of Kili cheering him on and being silenced by his brother’s elbow to the ribs; he willed his eyes to remain on Thorin, and Thorin only.

Bilbo wriggled in-between dwarves and men, taking extra care not to shove anyone. The last thing he needed was an offended guest to add to the list; he was pretty sure his arms would be quite full by the end of the feast, what with the three dwarrowdams he was about to upset.

It wasn’t long before he was within hearing range and the King’s voice reached his ears. It was deep and low, as per usual, but Bilbo detected a dash of something that suspiciously sounded like discomfort.

“No, I don’t know if he intends to stay, the topic hasn’t come up yet.”

The hobbit frowned and almost stopped to listen in, but he shook his head and decided that it would be incredibly rude and uncalled for. So he set to another very rude and uncalled for task: cutting in the middle of a conversation.

“Excuse me, ladies, I hate to interrupt,” Bilbo said as casually as he could, “but I need to borrow the King for a few moments. A matter of high importance has come up, I am sure you can understand.” The hobbit turned away from the trio and he could _feel_ their glares burning holes into his back. He smiled up at Thorin and grabbed his thick forearm, tugging him away before one of the dwarrowdams could protest. “This way Your Highness, if you please.”

Bilbo led Thorin away from the banquet and, consequently, from the throngs of people. He only released the dwarf’s sleeve when they were almost at the arch leading away from the Main Hall and into the Entrance Hall. The hobbit turned around and was amused by Thorin’s slightly lopsided crown and mussed up hair. He hadn’t meant to manhandle the dwarf; in fact, he was pretty sure he was incapable of such a feat. Thorin must have let himself be dragged around willingly.

The King straightened and his eyes met Bilbo’s. “So, what is this matter of high importance you spoke about?” he asked.

Bilbo’s slight small disappeared; had he mistaken the call for help in Thorin’s gaze for something else? “You didn’t really believe that, did you?” he inquired softly, some nervousness slipping into his voice. “I just… I mean, Fili said you were probably uncomfortable and I w-wanted to help, is all.”

Honestly, the frown on Thorin’s face was enough to drain all ale from Bilbo’s blood and reduce him to the small hobbit that he was. He had forgotten how it felt to be on the receiving end of that dark stare, though he didn’t feel the urge to squirm as he would have when he first met Thorin.

Then a smile bloomed on the bearded face and Bilbo understood that he had fallen prey to the dwarf’s special sense of humor. “And your help is much appreciated,” Thorin said with a nod. “I was beginning to think I would spend the whole feast talking and not eating anything.”

“I take it the conversation wasn’t to your liking?” Bilbo asked, now relieved that he hadn’t done anything foolish. Like break another dwarven rule, or something. He wouldn’t put it past the brothers to talk him into doing such a thing, if only for a laugh.  

“Not exactly,” Thorin answered, finally reaching up to adjust his crown. “But I had forgotten all about dwarrowdams’ legendary curiosity. I have been away from my dear sister for too long, I’m afraid.”

Dwarf and hobbit made their way back to where Fili and Kili were seated, with Bilbo in the lead. Upon arrival he noticed that Bofur was gone – probably off to reunite with Bifur and their toys – and that two untouched servings of beef stew were waiting across from the King’s nephews. Who were both wearing far too innocent grins.

_Trust them to only act childishly when I am alone with them,_ Bilbo thought, shaking his head. Nonetheless the hobbit sat in front of Fili, fighting a smile as he felt Thorin settling on the bench next to him. However short-lived, moments when the dwarf was close were to be enjoyed.

Thorin thanked his nephews and quickly tucked in the large bowl, heaving spoonful upon spoonful with enough restraint to look kingly while doing it, but fast enough that Bilbo doubted he even tasted the food before swallowing it. The hobbit chuckled and dug into his own serving more slowly, taking his time to chew and savor the juicy meat. Bombur and his cooks had done wonders, once again.

Bilbo had only eaten a few bites when Thorin reached out for the bread to wipe the last of the pepper sauce from his bowl. The hobbit tried to ignore the heat in his cheek as the dwarf’s muscular thigh pressed up against his own in the process, and raised his bowl to his lips in an attempt to hide his slightly flushed face.

And if his knee was still touching Thorin’s when the dwarf wiped his bowl clean, well, he wasn’t about to complain.

The four of them chatted for the better part of the next hour, mostly about news from the Blue Mountains and how they ought to ensure safety for their kin as they travelled through Middle-Earth. Fili and Kili were eager to see their mother again, just as Bombur and Gloin were probably dying to be reunited with their families. But they still had a few weeks left to wait.

Thankfully, only a handful of people stopped by to speak to Thorin, and they were only well-wishers who meant to offer a few kind words to thank the King before they left the feast. Consequently, Thorin was relaxed and allowed his barriers to come down a little, revealing a pleasant facet of his character that had first made itself known after Smaug was killed.

The dwarf would smile and chuckle, bumping his shoulder against Bilbo’s when the hobbit made a snide comment about his head ever becoming too big for his crown. By the end of the feast, most men had left for Dale and a large portion of dwarves had gone back to work in the depths of Erebor. Bilbo’s belly was quite full and the ale had distilled a pleasant buzz in his brain and muscles; he was content to just sit and listen to his three dwarves as they bickered over the best way to hunt deer. The shireling’s chin was propped up into his open palm and one of his feet rested on Thorin’s heavy boot. He itched to scoot closer and press his side snugly into Thorin’s, to bathe in the warmth that he could only vaguely feel emanating from the King.

But of course, it would be highly inappropriate.

“Bilbo,” Thorin asked quietly as his nephews squabbled on. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course,” the hobbit answered after shaking out of his reverie. “What do you want?”

The King chanced another glance at Fili and Kili, who were all but ignoring them. “It is related to what I meant to tell you earlier, before we were interrupted…” Thorin shifted a bit on the bench and he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. Bilbo willed his heart to stop hammering his ribcage, but it was useless with Thorin’s hoarse voice blowing hot breath on his cheek.  

“Bilbo, I have long since wished to ask if you would-”

Bilbo’s ears perked up when music, that had been reduced to a nice background noise when people started leaving, suddenly picked up and filled the room with a rousing, hearty rhythm. Thorin’s surprised jerk threw Bilbo’s foot off of his boot and the King tensed up at the commotion. His mind was still one of a warrior, it was only normal for his body to respond accordingly, but Bilbo still mourned the interruption and the loss of contact.

Thorin’s searching eyes narrowed on Dáin, who was speaking with one of the musicians. It was pretty obvious that the Lord of the Iron Hills was to blame for the change of tune.

“I am going to have a word with my cousin,” the dwarf said as he got to his feet. “The feast is over and there is no reason to keep the band from any other obligation they might have.” Then he shot Bilbo a somewhat apologetic look. “I shall be back shortly.”

Bilbo nodded absently and watched as Thorin walked away. The King was apologizing a lot on this fine day, and he wondered what could possibly be the cause. It wasn’t like him to act this way, especially since he couldn’t be held responsible for the things that kept driving him away from Bilbo’s side.

There was a snort nearby, and when Bilbo turned his head, he caught sight of two mirthful, almost smug young dwarves. “What?” he asked warily.

“You were staring,” Kili pointed out.

“I was not,” Bilbo lied immediately, refusing to sound sheepish.

“You were,” Fili countered, nodding. “What could Uncle Thorin’s bum possibly possess that has you so enthralled?”

“I was _not_ staring,” the hobbit repeated, feeling the tip of his ears grow far too hot. “And certainly not at Thorin’s… backside, you disrespectful ruffians.”

“Oh, that stung,” Kili mocked with a snicker. “You can fool the entire population of Erebor, Master Baggins, but you can’t fool us.”

“We know Uncle and you have grown very close. And it’s alright,” Fili added quickly when he saw their hobbit recoil as if burned, “you have nothing to be scared of. We are perfectly fine with it, as long as Uncle Thorin and you are both happy.”

“There is absolutely nothing going on betwixt your uncle and me,” Bilbo grumbled, and for once he was sad to admit that he was telling the truth. He was also very glad for the loud music, which conveniently covered their conversation and kept it from reaching others’ ears.

Kili rolled his eyes. “Right, so you hobbits just kiss people out of the blue as a pastime?”

Bilbo furrowed his brow at the dwarf’s words. He didn’t remember kissing Thorin with Kili as a witness before. In fact, he didn’t remember kissing Thorin at all, not since that first time in the tent, after the Battle of Five Armies. And Kili couldn’t possibly know about this kiss; even though he and his brother were indeed in the same tent, they had been soundly asleep when it occurred. Unless…

“You scoundrel,” Bilbo gasped, “you _saw_ that? I thought you were asleep!”

“Well, we didn’t want to bother you at the time, the two of you looked a bit busy,” Fili explained without any shame.

Bilbo did a double take. “You too? And you never said anything!”

“Of course not, who do you take us for? Some kind of sick perverts?” Kili snorted and held his nose high, as if Bilbo had just insulted his whole family.

“What he means to say is, it was not our intention to spy on you,” Fili said, and the smile he graced Bilbo with was genuine. “And we are happy for the two of you. You deserve one another, after everything you have been through.”

Bilbo sighed and ran a hand down his face. “As much as I appreciate your support, boys, I was telling the truth. There is nothing going on between Thorin and I. I… I guess we are both too busy to think about such things. I mean, he just reclaimed Erebor and became King, being involved with someone is certainly last on his to-do list.”

“Now, don’t be ridiculous, when it comes to matters of the heart I am sure there’s always time for… Oh my.” Fili’s voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide as he spotted something over Bilbo’s shoulder. Kili wore an expression to match his brother’s, with the addition of a gaping mouth.

Puzzled, Bilbo turned around on the bench and froze as he was met with a sight he hadn’t even thought was possible.

Thorin Oakenshield was dancing. And not alone, too.  

The charming smile was back on the dwarf’s bearded face as he led his partner across an empty section of the Main Hall. Thorin was, to his credit, an outstanding dancer and it was the first time that Bilbo could bear witness to his skills. The King moved with effortless grace and still managed to make it look like there was an infinite amount of power hidden in his gestures.

Something dark and wicked curled inside Bilbo’s chest when he spotted the female in his King’s arms. He recognized her as Dihla, Dáin’s niece, although it was hard to tell with that huge grin distorting her face. One of her hands was resting on Thorin’s shoulder, which could almost be seen as acceptable, but the other one was weaved into the dwarf’s. If Bilbo squinted hard enough, he could almost swear that her thumb was moving inside Thorin’s palm, stroking the soft flesh there. And her hips digging into Thorin’s as the music sped up…

It was too much. Bombur’s cooking was going to greet the world once more if he kept watching.

“Turns out you were right, Fili,” Bilbo said bitterly. “I guess there’s always time, if you really want it.”

He didn’t even realize he was fleeing until he was halfway into the Entrance Hall, Fili and Kili calling after him. He couldn’t bear to stand and watch as Thorin was slowly snatched away from him and he could do nothing to stop it. He was practically blind as he raced through the passageways, his large feet fortunately knowing their way around the maze of Erebor’s corridors.

And no, the stinging in his eyes had nothing to do with the knife stabbing through his heart. Absolutely not.


	3. The Library

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing with it's probably illegal.

The library was considerably less crowded than the rest of Erebor, even on a daily basis, and with the feast it was almost deserted. But Bilbo had to wait for dusk and the early hours of evening to be completely alone with the thousands of books and scrolls.

He lit two more candles when the lanterns on the wall failed to provide enough light for him to read comfortably. Nothing like a good book to escape reality and dive into a whole new, pain-free universe. Even when said book’s title was _Durin the Deathless: an illustrated biography_ and its content very vague, but Bilbo hadn’t managed to find a lot of books on dwarven history that had been translated into Common Speech. Since he was not in the mood to attempt reading Khuzdul, he would have to make do.

Bilbo shifted in his seat and leaned over the elegant mahogany desk he had set the heavy tome upon to turn a page. On the left page there was an elaborate drawing of a mountain, not unlike the one he was currently living in, but that one only had a single, very high and narrow opening whereas Erebor’s gates were large and copiously carved. The hobbit ran the pad of a finger over the word _Khazad-dûm_ written under the picture; Balin already made mention of that place, but for his life he couldn’t remember why…

Oh, right. Khazad-dûm, or Moria for most people. The underground network once built by dwarves in the Misty Mountains, now abandoned. He remembered Balin’s tales about the fortress’ wealth and glory, before a terrible monster was awakened in the depths of the mines and wreaked havoc in the mountain, killing thousands and forcing the dwarves away from Khazad-dûm, giving orcs and goblins leave to invade the abandoned kingdom. Centuries later, after Smaug took Erebor as his own, Thrór attempted to reclaim Moria and thus provoked the Battle of Azanulbizar – which, Bilbo remembered, had cost him his life. It was also after that battle that Thorin earned his epithet “Oakenshield”.

And there. He was thinking about Thorin again.

Bilbo slammed the book shut with a sigh and leaned his elbows on the desk, burying his head in his hands. He was just looking for a moment of respite, a few hours without the King on his mind, was it too much to ask? He guessed so, since he couldn’t stop thinking about the dwarf, even though a cold hand gripped his insides each and every time he did. He hadn’t indulged in his urge to cry; he was a respectable hobbit, no matter what half of Hobbiton could say, and as such he wouldn’t weep over something so petty.

But oh, he wished to. He hadn’t felt this hurt since the last time he had been dangled over the edge of a mountain by his throat, and he had cried that day, cried until his lungs were on fire and his throat felt like sandpaper. It had been raw and brutal, just like Thorin’s behavior that day, but nothing like what he felt as he sat on his stool over the desk. He felt… stupid. Naïve. Weak, that he allowed this to happen to him. He had let his hopes flare and only had himself to blame now that they had been crushed.

At that moment more than ever, Bilbo missed Bag End. His quiet, solitary life with his books and his armchair, the market and his weekly walk to Bywater to catch a few fishes… He had believed that he could have a life in Erebor, but that line of thought had only been motivated by Thorin’s support and the King’s affection. If Bilbo was denied this… he wasn’t sure he could live in a mountain where Thorin was involved with someone else. He loved the company, especially Fili and Kili, and he would be as devastated as the brothers if he were to part ways with them. But he just wouldn’t be strong enough.

He was just a hobbit. A weak Baggins. A fool of a Took.

Bilbo crossed his arms on the desk and snuggled into them, fighting hard to keep his tears at bay. With his feet dangling over the floor and his hair all mussed up, he guessed he had to be a sore sight. But there was nobody around, so it mattered not what he looked like. He let his mind wander to the green hills and blue skies of the Shire, enjoying the silence that came with being entirely alone in a large room. The soft glow of candlelight lulled his tormented mind into a peaceful state; in fact, he could almost take a nap, and grab a bite from the kitchens before retiring to his rooms. Nobody would notice, if he just dozed off for a while…

Bilbo almost fell from his stool when the door of the library flung open with a loud noise. He winced when he inadvertently bit his tongue and the taste of copper filled his mouth. Eyes closed, his hand flew to his lips to still the pain and stifle a curse; who in Eru’s name…

“I thought I might find you here.”

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open at the familiar voice and was instantly reminded that he had chosen a desk that was facing the doors. Anyone walking in couldn’t miss him, as he hadn’t had the presence of mind to slip his magic ring on.

Which would have been quite useful, and kept him away from Thorin’s eyes.

The King was quite a sight. Dark strands were glued to his forehead and his neck due to the thin sheet of sweat that was coating his skin. His cheeks were a bit red and his breathing was coming out in little pants, as though he had just run a mile or two. His clothing as well seemed to have suffered from an unknown hand; the blue tunic was wrinkled and a bit distorted, held in place by a lopsided belt.

As pleasant a sight as Thorin was, Bilbo loathed thinking about the reason behind the dwarf’s state, and the hands that had probably ruffled him up…

“As you can see, I am here,” Bilbo replied evenly, “though I wonder why you would seek me out.”

This pulled an abashed look from Thorin, and the dwarf stared at Bilbo with something akin to anxiety. “I told you I wished to speak with you after the feast was over,” Thorin said, his voice low and almost tentative. “Or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t,” the hobbit answered dryly. “But the feast ended hours ago and I had matters to attend to.” A lie, a big, Smaug-sized lie. But he couldn’t very well admit that he had fled the Main Hall to hole himself up in the library, could he?

“Such as sleeping in the library? Because that is what I saw you doing when I walked in,” the dwarf pointed out, but there was no bite in the words. If anything, Thorin was amused. “Interesting duties, if you ask me.”

“Well, I haven’t asked you, and for your information I was taking a break,” Bilbo snapped. He didn’t know why he was being so harsh; he felt angered, and venting it out on Thorin seemed like a nice idea. “Now, do you intend to stand here all evening or will you speak, so I can return to my activities?”

Thorin’s face betrayed his complete surprise at the acerbic tone in the hobbit’s voice. He stood silently for a few moments before he decided to approach Bilbo, much like someone would near a wounded warg. “What has you in such a foul mood, Bilbo?” he asked warily, stepping close until he could lay his hands on the desk.

“I am not in a foul mood,” the hobbit said through gritted teeth, making a show of opening his book again as if he had every intention to ignore the King and get back to his reading. Although he knew perfectly well that he wouldn’t be able to focus with Thorin within reaching range.

“Have I done something to upset you?” The dwarf leaned in to lay his hands flat on the desk, silently asking Bilbo to look up at him. But when his attempt failed, and his dear friend’s eyes remained stuck on the old pages, he sighed. “I have, then. Would you care to tell me?”

Bilbo shrugged, absently turning one page with his forefinger – he hadn’t read a single word, but he had a façade to keep up. “I don’t know, you seem awfully busy today, I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance,” he mumbled. “My burdens are mine to bear.”

A frown marred Thorin’s face at those words. “You are not a nuisance, and it is unlike you to keep to yourself when something is amiss.” The dwarf splayed his fingers over the ancient pages, hindering Bilbo’s reading. When he spoke again, his voice was considerably softer. “Bilbo, please look at me.”

The hobbit hesitated for a second but finally relented and raised his eyes to meet Thorin’s gaze. Which only served to prove that avoiding those blue eyes had been a very, very clever idea indeed; at the odd mix of puzzlement and concern reflected in the cobalt pools, Bilbo felt his anger deflate and wither in his chest. He hated that the dwarf had this kind of power over him, but he couldn’t bear to see Thorin tormented, especially when he was to blame.

“I haven’t seen much of you today, not as much as I expected, is all,” Bilbo admitted reluctantly, suddenly feeling like a petulant child, complaining about something so petty. “I guess I’m a bit frustrated.”

Thorin’s features relaxed as puzzlement gave way to surprise then understanding. Concern, though, never deserted the King’s gaze. “I have no excuse for this,” he said, his shoulders sagging a little. “I intended to spend more time with you today, there is something of great importance that I want to discuss with you.”

“So you keep telling me,” Bilbo replied, and if his tone wasn’t harsh anymore, it had retained a bitter edge.

“I was caught up,” Thorin argued, reaching out to snatch Bilbo’s hand when the hobbit batted his fingers away to get back to reading. “But I have found you. I will speak with you now, if you are still willing to listen.”

Bilbo squirmed a bit on his stool. He knew Thorin was waiting for an answer, and for a moment he was tempted to say no, just to spite the King and give him a taste of his own medicine. But then the dwarf’s broad thumb started stroking up and down his wrist and his resolve fled him as quickly as Fili fled apples.

“I am listening,” he said finally. “Let me find you a stool, if we are going to-”

“Yóna, don’t be ridiculous, you are far too young for him!”

Thorin and Bilbo jumped at the shrill, distinctly female voice coming from the hall. They were dumbstruck for a few seconds but it quickly dawned on them just who was walking outside of the library. Thorin let out a colorful string of curses in Khuzdul under his breath – or at least, Bilbo guessed he was cursing – and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“They never give up,” he muttered. “Mahal, give me strength…”

“Thorin, you are King Under the Mountain,” Bilbo said quietly but with a tinge of annoyance. “If you really want them to stop badgering you, you only have to tell them so.”

“You don’t understand, they are females! Even though I am King, it would be highly impolite to just-”

“Shut up, Kóna, and stop following me! Go back to Father,” another voice answered the first, and the approaching footsteps drained color from Thorin’s face.

“They are near,” he whispered to nobody in particular, and his eyes began frantically searching the room around him.

Bilbo blinked, taken aback by the dwarf’s reaction. “Are you… looking for a place to hide?” he asked, bewildered. “How very unkingly!”

“Be quiet!” Thorin hissed. “I can’t go back, if I have to live through one more dance, I will collapse in front of everyone, and this hardly strikes me as very ‘kingly’ either.” He kept turning on the spot, racking the shelves and walls for a hiding spot.

Bilbo knew that it would all be in vain; Thorin couldn’t have chosen a worse room to hide in. There was no way the King could fit into one of the shelves, and he certainly wouldn’t make it to the other side of the room in time to hide behind one of the statues there.

Time was running out. And Thorin was sure to get caught, it was simply impossible to walk through those doors without spotting the both of them. Bilbo began to prepare himself to see his dwarf snatched away for the third time that day, and disappointment filled his chest. There was no way around it. Unless…

A foolish idea came to his mind and he voiced it before he thought it through. “Get under the desk.”

Thorin’s head snapped his way; his eyes were a bit wild. “What?”

“Hide under my desk,” he repeated quickly. “They won’t look under there while I sit here.”

“My brain may be lacking blood. I could swear you just suggested I huddle under your desk.”

“Fine,” Bilbo snapped, holding his chin high and not taking extra care to keep his voice low. “Have it your way. I wish you a nice evening then, Your Highness.”

There was a change in rhythm in the corridor as footsteps faltered and came to a halt. “I heard voices over there… Look the door is open,” one of the females said.

With a hastily-barked Khuzdul word, Thorin quickly strode around the desk and dropped on all fours, pushing Bilbo’s stool to the side with his shoulder to crawl under the mahogany structure. Once he was curled into a tight ball underneath, he looked up at Bilbo and mouthed the words “Never tell anyone about this” before reaching for the stool and tugging it back in place.

Bilbo almost gasped when his bare feet came to rest against a solid chest, but no amount of squirming could ease the pressure. Desks hadn’t been designed to conceal more than large booted feet, and Thorin barely fit under there, any movement making the elegant wood creak and squeak.

“Be still,” Bilbo hissed when something, probably Thorin’s crown, bumped against the back of the desk. He pressed his soles a bit harder into the dwarf’s chest to quiet his grumbling when the door to the library was opened in full.

The hobbit did his very best to appear innocent as the two dwarrowdams walked in. He turned a page and looked for all the world as if he was reading peacefully in the candlelight, and not maintaining the bulk of a tall dwarf under his desk with his feet.

Bilbo feigned surprise as the two females – Yóna and Kóna, he reckoned, although he didn’t know who was who – approached him, their eyes searching the whole room. “Good evening, ladies,” he bid quietly, trying to sound casually polite. “Is there something I might help you with?”

Two pairs of golden eyes narrowed down on him. They were sisters, Bilbo concluded, so alike in features that they could be twins, if such a thing wasn’t so rare for Dwarves. He would have gladly marvelled at the specks of green adorning the golden pupils, if said pupils weren’t filled with such scorn.

“So, you are the halfling,” one of them said, her gaze taking in Bilbo’s appearance.

“Assuming this mountain hosts no other hobbit, yes, I am,” Bilbo answered with a nod. “We met at the feast, though briefly.”

“Indeed. Is it considered proper in hobbits’ customs to cut in a conversation? Because we-”

“We haven’t been introduced yet,” the other dwarrowdam interrupted, flashing Bilbo a bright – and very fake – smile. “I am Kóna and this is Yóna, daughters of Gína. We arrived from the Iron Hills this morning. You must be Master Baggins.”

The hobbit nodded. Kóna had to be the older, wiser one, always keeping her younger sibling under control. He was reminded of Fili and Kili, except that there was nothing disdainful or faked whenever he had a talk with the brothers. “Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins of Bag End, at your service,” he drawled. He had mastered customary dwarven greetings a long time ago, and the words flowed easily.  

“King Thorin couldn’t stop talking about you at the feast,” Kóna said with that same honeyed smile. Bilbo wondered if sugar was about to drip from her lips at one point. “I understand you faced the great Smaug on your own? You must be very brave indeed, for such a small creature, and our King is right to heap praise upon you.”

“Did he, now?” Bilbo fought a smug grin as he felt Thorin shift uneasily under the desk. “Well, I had no idea Thorin held me in such high regards. I am a simple hobbit, after all.”

“How dare you call him by his name?” the younger one, Yóna, seethed. She batted her sister’s hand away and walked closer to the desk, a fierce fire burning low in her golden eyes. “This is disrespectful!”

If she thought she could impress him, she was sorely mistaken. Bilbo had been on the receiving end of Thorin’s death glare so many times that he had become immune to this kind of threat. “King Thorin and I have faced death often enough for me to earn the right to call him whatever I want,” he replied evenly, never tearing his gaze away from Yóna’s. “And the same goes for him.”

A bold move, but the warm hand that came up to hold his ankle told him it was alright.

“Which is perfectly understandable,” Kóna piped in, laying her hands on her sibling’s shoulders to give them a squeeze – a hard warning squeeze, judging by Yóna’s wince. “Links betwixt comrades in arms are often stronger than those uniting Kings to their subjects. Speaking of which… have you seen King Thorin?”

“Today? Not much, no, a short while at the feast perhaps,” Bilbo mused, sitting back on his stool to stretch his back. He groaned softly at the loud ‘pop’ and decided that next time he holed up in the library, he would make sure to get a decent seat. “Why? Has he gone missing?”

“No, no, we just wished to see him before retiring to our rooms,” Kóna said sweetly. Even as she talked, her eyes were scanning the room. “We thought we heard voices coming from the… library, apparently. We just wanted to bide him a good night.”

“No, I’m alone in here,” Bilbo replied, scratching his right ear to cover Thorin’s snort and relishing in the startled gasp the dwarf emitted when toes butted against his stomach. “Everyone has gone to supper. Or bed, for that matter, I’m afraid I lost track of time at some point.”

Yóna snorted. “Then who were you talking to, halfling?”

Bilbo allowed a frown to cross his features. Before, he had had no problem with people calling him that, but months of being a respectable ‘Master Baggins’ whom dwarves bowed to made the term ‘Halfling’ sound like a wretched insult. And if Thorin’s low growl was any indication, the King thought so as well.

“Nobody, actually,” he answered, his patience wearing thin. “I often speak to myself, it helps me sort my thoughts and clear my mind.”

Yóna snickered, deepening Bilbo’s frown. “You can’t tell time inside a mountain, you walk without any boots on and now you speak to yourself? Is there no end to hobbits’ oddities?” Her older sister didn’t add any comment, nor did she try to stop her sibling this time. It seemed that since Bilbo didn’t know where Thorin was, he wasn’t worthy of attention anymore. “How did you really get rid of Smaug? You peeved him to death?”

“If you must know,” Bilbo said, his voice loud enough to cover the racket of Thorin’s crown hitting the underside of the desk, “I had no hand in Smaug’s death, it was Bard, the Lord of Dale, who killed the dragon. Now, if you’ll excuse me ladies, I have matters to attend to before I retire to bed. Rest assured that I’ll inform _Thorin_ of your wish to bide him a good night if our paths were to cross.” He gave them a firm nod. “Have a pleasant night, ladies.”

Kóna retreated to the door, slightly disappointed, but Yóna was still staring at Bilbo. “You had no hand in Smaug’s death,” she whispered, her golden eyes unbelieving. “And you are not a warrior. Why were you on this quest?”

“It’s a long story, and I find that I have neither the time nor intention to tell it now.”

The dwarrowdams’ features crunched up in thought, but before long her eyes widened. “Oh. I see. How could I miss it, you look so soft and pliant… You were a means of entertainment, nothing more.”

“Excuse me?” Thorin’s puzzlement mirrored Bilbo’s, for the massive chest had ceased moving against the hobbit’s feet as the King held his breath.

“It was a long journey, and males have need, I know.” A crude smirk stretched Yóna’s lips as she slowly walked to where her sister was silently waiting for her. “I can understand how choosing someone from another race with different customs could work. Pretty clever, actually.”

It eventually dawned on Bilbo just what the young female was talking about. He only had a few seconds to brace himself when Thorin’s mind caught up as well and the dwarf started trashing around. Bilbo contained the King as best as he could, sticking his furry feet anywhere and pushing against the bulk that threatened to escape from under the desk. He felt Thorin’s wiry beard scratch his soles and, ouch, was that an edge of teeth on his toes?

_She’s almost gone, she’s almost gone_ , he repeated over and over in his head like a mantra, praying that he could hold Thorin back long enough for those two dwarrowdams to go away.

“ _Leave_ ,” he growled out, shaking both from anger and Thorin’s squirming. “Leave now, or Mahal help me, I don’t know what will happen.” This much was true, at least, since it wasn’t in his power to trap Thorin forever. Or another minute, for that matter.

The insufferable female scoffed and, to Bilbo’s utter relief, exited the library with her sister in tow. He waited a few seconds until their footsteps faded before he removed his feet from Thorin’s body and moved his stool.

The King tumbled out from under the desk into a rather undignified heap on the floor. Bilbo expected him to scramble to his feet and dust himself off, but Thorin just looked up at him with surprise and fury in his eyes. “She… I never thought… How dare she speak of you as if you were a… a _whore_ or…”

“Thorin, breathe,” Bilbo soothed, sliding from his stool to kneel beside the dwarf. “Who cares what she says? We know the real story, it doesn’t affect me, and it shouldn’t affect you either.”

The dwarf calmed down somewhat and sat up to turn big, bewildered blue eyes to Bilbo. “How can you be so composed? Your reputation has just been violated, how can you tolerate it?”

Bilbo chuckled bitterly and plucked one of Thorin’s braids out of his face. “Gossip is a common thing in the Shire, and let’s say I reap more than I sow in that field. I’m used to it.” The hobbit plopped down on the ground to sit beside his dwarf friend, his back propped up against the desk. “Besides, I’m a guest here, it wouldn’t do to go and chew other guests out, now would it?”

“You are not a common guest, Bilbo,” Thorin growled, running a hand down his face. “I need to have words with the two of them. I will not allow such tales about you to be carted around Erebor, this simply will not do.”

“Uh uh!” Bilbo tutted as Thorin made to get up, putting a hand on the dwarf’s chest. “Absolutely not! It is very unlikely that any tale begins to spread at such a late hour, so you can talk to them tomorrow. In the meantime, you, Master Dwarf, are going to tell me what you wished to discuss. And _right now_ , before another Eru-forsaken event snatches you away from me once more!”

It had ended in some kind of desperate squeak, and if there was no whirlwind of emotions in Bilbo’s brain, the hobbit would have certainly taken some time to feel shamed by it. As it was, he couldn’t care less.

Thorin gazed at him for some time until he finally nodded. “Very well. Could we at least get up from the floor and sit properly?”

“No,” Bilbo snapped. “If we do, something will happen and drive you away from here. Speak up, my ears work just as fine here as they would were I seated on a chair.” Moreover, anyone walking through the door – unlikely as it sounded, at such an hour – wouldn’t see the two of them sitting behind the desk, and it was fine by Bilbo.

“Fair enough.” Thorin twisted on the floor until he was sitting in front of the hobbit. The King pulled his crown off of his head and, depositing it carefully on Bilbo’s stool, ran a hand through his dark hair. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he could have sworn the thick fingers were shaking a bit. “First, I wish to apologize. I meant to come to you sooner about this matter, but time kept slipping through my fingers and… I wanted to do this properly.”

Bilbo watched on curiously as Thorin reached into his pocket and retrieved something. Unfortunately, the dwarf kept whatever it was clutched in his fist, out of the hobbit’s sight.

“Bilbo,” Thorin spoke again, his voice a bit hoarse but his eyes bore deep into Bilbo’s. “I might have doubted you when I met you, but I soon realized the errors of my ways. You are not helpless nor useless, and while your heart is soft and gentle, I have never met someone so brave and fearless. I was blinded at first and couldn’t appreciate your worth for what it was, but you managed to open my eyes. You gave me a torch to ward off darkness and a hand so I would not be on my own. In my darkest moments, you were there to help me through the day. You reminded me of a time when I knew who I was.”

Thorin took a shaky breath. Bilbo was vaguely aware of the pumping of blood in his ears and the beating of his poor hobbit heart, but all he could focus on was a pair of dark blue eyes shining in the candlelight. He wanted to say something, anything, but was too afraid to break the fragile spell cast over the library.

“As long as there’s breath left in my body, I shall never stray from your side. If you will have me.”

At long last, Thorin’s hand opened to reveal two matching silver beads. The ornaments were carefully carved and although they weren’t close enough to be sure, Bilbo could make out tiny shapes that looked like flowers, or flames.

“Will you allow me to court you, Bilbo Baggins, my One?”

Bilbo was almost sure time stopped for a few blessed moments. Later on, he would admit that staring at Thorin open-mouthed like a fish out of water had not been very courteous, but at the moment the hobbit wasn’t sure there was something else he could do.

Thorin must have mistaken his silence for rejection, for doubt clouded the blue eyes and he drew his hand back a little. “Bilbo?” he rasped out, worry darkening his features.

This shook the small burglar from his trance. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Yes.” Louder this time, and with a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes!” A chuckle escaped Bilbo as he raised himself on his knees and grabbed Thorin’s free hand in both of his. “Yes, Thorin!”

Thorin smiled and leaned forward, wrapping his thick arms around Bilbo’s smaller frame for a heartfelt hug. The hobbit buried his nose into the King’s silver-streaked hair; he only noticed he was crying when the salty drops slid into his laughing mouth. He knew he was hugging Thorin’s neck a bit too hard for it to be comfortable, if the raspy beard digging into his own neck was any indication, but he didn’t care. He wanted the dwarf as close as could be.

After a while, though, Bilbo dropped a heavy kiss on Thorin’s head and pulled back to look at his King’s face. He hadn’t expected wide eyes to stare back at him in surprise. “What?” he asked blearily with a somewhat watery smile.

“You are crying,” Thorin stated matter-of-factly, his hand reaching up to cup Bilbo’s cheek. “Are you upset?”

Bilbo couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing again. “No, you silly dwarf!” he gasped out. “You have just made me the happiest hobbit in the world!”

“But why are you crying then?”

Thorin’s dubious look sent Bilbo in a fresh fit of giggles and he buried his tear-streaked face into the dwarf’s shoulder, giving up on his explanation. After a while Thorin gave up as well, and Bilbo was enveloped in a tender hug, a bearded cheek resting on his honeyed curls. He basked in the warmth of this newfound fortress and hummed appreciatively.

But Bilbo suddenly remembered something and pulled back. He twisted Thorin’s fist open to take a peek at the silver beads. “Are those… for me?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Thorin breathed. “I crafted them for you.”

Bilbo carefully plucked the small items from the dwarf’s large palm and brought them to his eyes. What he saw robbed his lungs of air and left him dumbstruck.

On the first bead, some kind of thorny vines were intertwined and, here and there, roses bloomed along the surface. A dragon was curled around the second bead, its fierce mouth open to unleash a stream of flames and its claws firmly buried inside plain silver. Both ornaments were marvels of details and skill, down to every single thorn on the vines, and every single scale on the dragon. They were beyond words.

“They are perfect,” Bilbo whispered, his eyes feasting on the abundance of tiny details.

Thorin’s chest puffed up a bit. He looked quite smug indeed. “Do they please you then?”

“More than you could think!” Bilbo flashed the dwarf a beaming smile, squeezing the beads in a fist over his heart. “Thank you! But you didn’t have to make something so beautiful to court me, you know.”

“Of course I did,” Thorin chuckled. “How will I hold your courting braids in place without beads?”

At the word ‘courting’, what had just occurred came crashing down on Bilbo. Courting. Thorin wished to court him. He hoped fervently that he hadn’t fallen asleep on his book and this wasn’t just a wicked dream. He would wake up a very disgruntled hobbit, were it the case.

Thorin nuzzled his cheek to obtain his attention and held out his hand, palm up, in a silent request for the beads to be handed back. “Allow me?”

Bilbo happily complied and gave back the beads, sitting still as Thorin’s skilled fingers began weaving short strands of dark blond hair into an intricate plait near the hobbit’s pointed ear. The dwarf worked quickly and efficiently, doing the same to the other side of Bilbo’s head, and ending the two new braids with the silver beads. The metal was a cool spot on Bilbo’s jaw; maybe he ought to let his hair grow.

“There,” Thorin said when he was done. “You are remarkably good-looking.”

“Thanks,” Bilbo grinned, but in the next second he frowned. “I guess I have to braid your hair as well. I don’t have any bead to give you though, is it alright if I use two of yours until I find some?”

A laugh rumbled low in Thorin’s chest and he smiled at his hobbit. “You are my intended, Bilbo, you aren’t required to provide me with beads. But yes, you are right, I’ll have you braid my hair as well.”

The King unwound two small braids from his still recovering mane to free two black beads that he deposited in Bilbo’s outstretched hand. But he took some time to observe them and roll them between his fingers before he let them go. The ornaments were not foreign to Bilbo; he had gathered them in Thranduil’s throne room, that dreadful day when Thorin’s hair had been cut. He had wanted to ask about them, the following night, when he had braided the dwarf’s hair next to the campfire, but he had refrained out of unease.

Bilbo took a deep breath and plucked his courage. “You remember, when I first braided your hair?” he asked softly. Thorin gave him a quizzical look but nodded slowly. “I was dying to ask about your beads, and why they seemed so important to you…” His voice trailed off on purpose, leaving it up to Thorin to decide whether or not he would grant his unspoken plea.

The dwarf hesitated and for a short minute Bilbo wondered if he hadn’t gone too far; they had only been courting, after all, for the better part of the last ten minutes. He feared he had already ruined whatever trust Thorin was willing to give him.

But then Thorin nodded. “Very well. Those two jet beads you are holding were made in a village of Men named Galtrev, in Dunland, a few years after Smaug came. They belonged to Frerin, my younger brother, and he wore them proudly until the day he was sent to join Mahal in his Great Halls.” Absently, Thorin’s fingers stroked one black bead, his eyes a bit unfocused as he relived a memory or another. “His body… it was badly burnt, unrecognizable, unmovable even. In spite of my efforts, I wasn’t able to bring him back and give him a proper burial. But I did save four beads; two, I gave to my sister, and the others I wear so that Frerin’s memory never fades away.”

The explanation weighted on Bilbo’s already swollen heart and brought fresh tears to his eyes. Of course, he knew what end Frerin had met, but to hear it from Thorin’s mouth, and that the King was willing to hand his dear brother’s beads over to Bilbo for him to braid his hair was too much emotion for one single evening.

“Thorin…” he rasped out.

“And I can only imagine,” Thorin spoke again, his eyes now staring into Bilbo’s, “how pleased he would be to see his beads weaved into my courting braids by my One’s hands. To be, in some way, a part of my happiness.”

Bilbo gave his dwarf a watery smile and, guided by Thorin’s words, slowly worked dark tendrils into two intricate plaits, on either side of his suitor’s head, securing them with the gleaming beads. When he was done, the hobbit cupped the bearded face he had come to care so much for, delighting in the feel of prickly hair under his palms.

The hobbit noticed a small scratch on the King’s cheek and caressed it, a sheepish look on his face. “I’m sorry I kicked you earlier,” he said softly. “You were making an awful lot of noise… I was afraid they were going to hear you, then spread tales about the King hiding under desks between a hobbit’s legs. Who knows what your people would think of that?”

“Very good thinking, Master Baggins,” Thorin growled gently, his hand coming up to cup the back of Bilbo’s head and tug him close to his chest. “What goes on between your hobbit legs is nobody’s business but ours.”

A delicious shiver ran down Bilbo’s spine at the dwarf’s words and he snuggled into the midnight blue tunic to hide his grin and his reddening cheeks. Oh, he liked this new Thorin, he liked him very much. “Still,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry for sticking my feet in your face. This was uncalled for.”

“Think nothing of it, Bilbo.”

There were a few peaceful moments that Bilbo spent enjoying just being held, his cheek pressed into a hard chest as warm hands stroked up and down his back. He might even find himself able to purr like a drowsy cat, lost as he was in the moment. But then…

“Speaking of your feet, do you ever wash them? They have the foulest taste…”

Thorin chuckled when Bilbo gave his arm an offended swat, and just pulled the scoffing hobbit even closer. And the hobbit’s nasty mutterings about Dwarves and their endless rudeness only served to make him laugh out loud.


	4. Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your hindsight and kind words! This is much more than I could hope for :)

Thorin sat back in his throne and groaned. “Are you quite sure about this?”

The raven perched on the armrest held his beak high and gave the King what could have only been the equivalent of a haughty look. “ _I am not in the habit of disclosing false messages, Your Highness. I shall tell you again: the Blue Mountains are missing most of their dwarven warriors. Last winter was particularly harsh and food was very rare. Added to the presence of scattered orcs and goblins in Eriador, most of those who had any fighting abilities left to make a living as mercenaries. Thorin’s Halls are hardly protected anymore, or at least wouldn’t be should orcs try and claim the Mountains as their own.”_

“Could it happen?” Thorin growled, the mere idea of his people being slaughtered by those foul beasts enough for a fist to clench with rage.

“ _The odds of orcs and goblins coming together for such an attack are very low, Majesty. Small groups have been sighted in the Lone-Lands, from ten to fifteen individuals, and those are no threat to your people in the Blue Mountains. But were they to encounter them on the road…”_

“I see your point.” Thorin hoisted himself up and walked down the few steps at the foot of his throne, reaching the floor where he began pacing restlessly. He couldn’t think properly while sitting still. “Why wasn’t I informed of this last week? A raven came from Ered Luin and only told me that they would be ready to travel in a month’s time. There was no mention of this.”

“ _Liräk is young and has yet to master patience, Your Highness. If you wish to seek compensation for my son’s recklessness, I shall endorse whatever punishment you see fit.”_ The bird stood proud, his chest puffed out and gazing over at the dwarf with determination.

Thorin’s scowl softened and he shook his head. “No, Toräk, this won’t be necessary.” He had seen enough pain and discomfort to last him a lifetime, and he wasn’t very fond of dealing it around when it wasn’t absolutely needed. “I am glad you came to me in the end. These are very bad news.”

Extremely bad news, indeed. A convoy the size of the one that was going to leave the Blue Mountains would never cross the Lone-Lands unseen, but avoiding those plains either by travelling through Evendim or Eregion would lengthen the journey considerably – impossibly so. Still, leaving so many females, dwarflings and elders wander into Orc territory without proper protection…

“How many fighters do they have?” Thorin asked the raven.

“ _Only three guards remain, and of course there is your sister, Lady Dís,_ ” Toräk replied, a little more relaxed now that he was sure he was not going to end up on a spit. “ _Others are blacksmiths, tanners or tinkers. They are not trained for battle, but claim that they would be able to handle their own should the need arise._ ”

Thorin groaned again. He would have been satisfied with eight, maybe ten combat-trained guards, for more wasn’t required to deal with a group of fifteen orcs. But things were grimmer than even his pessimistic mind thought. “Can those who left be called back?”

“ _We have no knowledge of their whereabouts. News reached Eriador that Smaug was defeated, but most refuse to believe it and don’t want to near the Misty Mountains. We can always hope for some of them to have returned to the Blue Mountains by the time the convoy leaves, but that is a risk.”_

“A risk that I am most unwilling to take.” Thorin sighed. “Thank you, Toräk, you did well. Go and rest, I might need your services in a day or two.”

“ _As you command, Your Highness._ ” The great raven bowed low and took flight, leaving the throne room almost noiselessly in a flutter of wind and a ruffle of dark feathers.

Thorin resumed pacing when the bird flew out of his sight. This was infuriating. He could always send word to his sister to wait until those warriors-turned-mercenaries returned to Ered Luin, but he had no idea when, or even if, it was going to happen. He was conscious that such a large convoy shouldn’t depart in winter, when days were short and nights were dangerous. But it was June already, and spring was slowly receding; his people couldn’t afford to wait all summer for dwarves who had left them to fend for themselves.

What options did that leave him with? Send an escort? He couldn’t very well order a pack of dwarves from the Iron Hills to go and take blows for his people, he had done that already; and for all Thorin was a good king, he was still a dwarf. And Dwarves hated to be indebted. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could ask such a thing of Dáin after… well, after rejecting his niece.

Not that he had done so in public, or even directly for that matter.

Fili had been the first to notice the courting braids in Bilbo’s hair and link them to Thorin’s. After a stream of congratulations, the golden-haired prince had run to tell his brother, of course. And thanks to Kili, by the end of the day, everyone in Erebor knew. Bilbo had been a bit annoyed, but Thorin was rather glad; his days were relatively free of female attention ever since, and he was relieved to have no more impromptu dancing or endless talking thrown upon him.

Dáin had, understandably, been caught unawares. He hadn’t expected his cousin to court someone who was not a dwarf, let alone a hobbit. But the Lord of the Iron Hills was very fond of Bilbo and to learn that the small burglar was Thorin’s One had brought a smile to the dwarf’s features. He admitted that Dihla would be disappointed, but promised that he would chastise her were she to try and bother the couple.

So it was safe to assume that Dáin would come to his help if needed, but Thorin was reluctant to burden his cousin any more.

“A copper for your thoughts?”

Thorin stilled at the voice and smiled even before he turned to face Bilbo.  A week had passed, and it still brought joy to the King’s heart to see the short courting braids in his One’s hair, the silver beads dangling from their ends.

He watched as Bilbo neared him. “I think you look magnificent today,” he answered.

The hobbit scoffed with a warm smile as he came to stand before Thorin. “Flatter away, Your Highness, but it stills doesn’t explain why you weren’t there at dinner. Bombur made a special dessert, lemon pie, which according to Fili is your favorite.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rose in bewilderment. “Is it that late?”

“Almost everyone has gone to bed, and when I didn’t find you in your study I thought you had too. And then I thought: would Thorin really retire for bed without wishing me a good night?”

Bilbo’s grin was both adorable and enticing. Thorin chuckled and reached out to pull the hobbit close for a warm hug. “I would not dare,” he whispered against Bilbo’s hair. “I have seen enough bloodshed in my life.”

“Thought as much.” The hobbit tiptoed to kiss Thorin’s bearded cheek.

“As penitence for my actions, I would be honored to accompany you back to your chambers,” Thorin offered as he pasted a fake sheepish look on his features.

“I suppose this is reasonable,” Bilbo nodded, slipping his hand into Thorin’s and already leading the dwarf down the length of the throne room.

The halls were quiet and empty, and only then did Thorin realize that it had to be very late indeed. As they walked, he allowed his shoulder to brush Bilbo’s and didn’t resist when small fingers were weaved through his own, larger ones and squeezed. They were alone, there was no harm in enjoying a little warmth.

On the way, Thorin told Bilbo about the raven, and the worries that plagued his mind.

“You could send a small group of dwarves and have them wait for the convoy in Bree or something,” Bilbo said when Thorin was done talking. “They could see them through the Lone-Lands unscathed.”

“I thought about it, but this is my people we are talking about, not Dáin’s,” Thorin sighed, one hand coming up to scratch at his nape. “Their safety is nobody’s responsibility but mine.

“Send a few lads from the company then,” the hobbit shrugged, his gaze staring right ahead. “I am sure Gloin and Bombur wouldn’t mind joining their families a bit earlier.”

Thorin considered the words for a moment and gave a noncommittal nod. “I will think about it and talk to them tomorrow,” he promised as they reached Bilbo’s chambers. Gently, he unwound his fingers from his One’s to clasp smaller shoulders. “Until then, I wish you a restful night, _âzyungel_.”

Thorin’s head dipped for a chaste kiss. Bilbo’s lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of ale and apple, which he had probably had for dinner. The dwarf bit back a low growl of appreciation and settled for nuzzling his nose into Bilbo’s instead.

He was about to pull back when he felt small hands tangle themselves in the front of his tunic and yank him forwards none too subtly. Almost immediately his lips crashed onto Bilbo’s and his mind went blank for a moment as he was pulled into an insistent yet gentle kiss. Thorin almost didn’t notice as the hobbit stepped back until he was trapped between the door to his rooms and the dwarf’s sturdy chest, and he had to brace himself against the large wooden panel to avoid crushing the smaller body.

Thorin was only made aware of Bilbo’s hands creeping up his front when fingers buried themselves in the hair at the back of his head, tugging him even closer. Wary at first – anyone could come down the hall and see them, after all – Thorin kissed back timidly then with more ease. His hands came down to rest on Bilbo’s hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into the hobbit’s sides as he relaxed into the kiss and let it slowly turn his mind to molten jelly.

When they had to part for air, Thorin gathered Bilbo in his arms and held him close, lowering his head so it rested on his intended’s shoulder to take in the scent of grass and fire smoke. He would be content to stay like this forever, with his One’s warmth in his arms and his steady breathing against his chest.

“Stay with me tonight?” Bilbo whispered in his ear then, giving the lobe a slight nip.  

Thorin involuntarily jerked back, tugging out of Bilbo’s arms with a look on his face that he knew bordered on dumbstruck. He shook it off quickly, but not swiftly enough that it went by unnoticed.

“How charming.” Thorin’s heart dropped at the frown on Bilbo’s face.

“Bilbo,” he began quickly before the hobbit thought he was being rejected, though it might already be too late. “This is much too soon. Such intimacy is reserved for a later stage of the courtship, when I have proven myself worthy of you.”

Bilbo crossed his arms and raised one dubious eyebrow. “Really, proven yourself _worthy_ of me? Does the past year count for nothing then?” He shook his head. “Besides, I wasn’t going to suggest _that_ , you stubborn dwarf. I was just wondering if you’d like to sleep with me. Just sleep, nothing else.”

“I am afraid that won’t be acceptable either, Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, if only to soothe his intended. He hadn’t wanted to ruffle the hobbit’s feathers, but as a King he couldn’t afford to overlook dwarven customs. He hoped that Bilbo understood.

But it didn’t look like it. “We have slept next to one another for countless nights on the quest! How is this different?”

“Circumstances were not the same. We were not courting back then, I wasn’t even aware that you were my One yet.” Thorin reached out and tenderly stroked Bilbo’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “You are something that I wish to cherish, a treasure that I would give my life to defend. I will not have people think that I am merely using you, that I think of you so lowly that I would be unwilling to court you properly.”

“Well, you may be a little too late,” Bilbo mumbled, looking at the floor over his still-crossed arms.

“What do you mean?”

“Your good friend Yóna. I don’t know what kind of tales she has been spreading this week but I met Bifur today. You will be pleased to know that I go by the name of Bilbo ‘Bed-Warmer’ Baggins amongst most dwarves of the Iron Hills.”

Bilbo’s shoulders were slumped and his eyes refused to meet Thorin’s even though the dwarf’s hand was still on his cheek. The slightly dejected behavior was quite puzzling to the King, who pushed his anger at hearing such a title tied to his beloved’s name away in benefit of a few moments to study Bilbo.

Suddenly, it dawned on him. The hobbit had been upset by the name-calling and had sought him out to receive some sort of comfort. Which he had failed to provide, quite obviously, as he had certainly misread Bilbo’s body language from the moment he had entered the throne room. Thorin had been so preoccupied by Toräk’s ill news that he had turned a blind eye on his One’s mood, choosing instead to dump his worries on the hobbit’s small shoulders.

Being the only member of his kin in a dwarven kingdom must be hard, but Thorin figured it wouldn’t be too difficult as long as people held Bilbo in high regards and were grateful for the deeds he had accomplished. For the past six months, he had been right: Men and Dwarves alike – even Elves, on rare visits – bowed down to Bilbo and were nothing if not deeply respectful of the shireling. But this was before Yóna’s babbling mouth…

“I had no idea,” he whispered, rubbing a pointed ear with the rough pad of his thumb.

Bilbo snorted. He had yet to uncross his arms, but the caress upon his ear seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders on some level. “Well, this is not something you would hear from the Council, I expect.”

“Indeed.” Thorin took a step forward to engulf Bilbo in a tender hug, his arms just holding the smaller frame and barely squeezing. He was relieved when the hobbit nestled into his chest and, as he ran battle-hardened fingers in the short blond locks, an idea struck him. “I may be able to secure one hour or two of free time tomorrow, if I send Fili on mine patrol in my stead,” he said softly.

“What of it?” Bilbo mumbled, his voice muffled by the white fur on Thorin’s coat.

“Why don’t you pack us some food and I join you for lunch outside the gates, mhm?” The dwarf lowered his head to press a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “It has been some time since our last private meal, and I would enjoy some sunlight.”

Well, last time had been in a tent and Thorin had had trouble sitting without busting stitches.

When Bilbo looked up, Thorin was pleased by the enticed glint in his hazelnut eyes. “Just the two of us?” he asked, and if the King didn’t know better, he could have sworn the tone was shy.

“Just the two of us,” the dwarf nodded.

Bilbo leaned against his suitor fully as all tension seemed to flee his body. “Won’t Fili mind?”

“He has accompanied me several times on those patrols, I wish to see how well he fares on his own. He will be King one day, I want him to be familiar with his future responsibilities.” When that didn’t quite convince Bilbo, Thorin sighed. “I will allow Kili to go with him.”

He knew it was the right thing to say when his hobbit finally smiled and returned his hug. “Then I would be very happy to have lunch with you tomorrow. I’ll wait for you near the fountain, you know the one with the bear?”

“I had it made, of course I know where it is, halfling,” Thorin snorted, softly bumping his forehead against Bilbo’s, making the hobbit chuckle. “I shall see you tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow.” Bilbo leaned up to capture Thorin’s lips in a last, longing kiss. “Good night, dear.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a fine June morning, Bilbo thought as he sat on the edge of the white fountain, his furry feet dangling back and forth as he hummed a tune softly to himself. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, not the faintest whiff of breeze to unsettle his hair as glorious sunlight bathed his face and lifted his spirits.

It was early, he knew. Thorin wouldn’t show up for at least half an hour, but it was just as well. A little time alone out of Erebor was always enjoyable, he considered it an opportunity to relax and sort his thoughts. And he had a _lot_ to think about, lately.

Courting Thorin was… well, it was not what he had expected it to be. He loved Thorin, of that he had no doubt, and if there was such a thing as the concept of ‘Ones’ in the Shire, Bilbo was sure Thorin would be his. But he hadn’t counted on Dwarven courting to be so… peculiar.

In the Shire, open displays of affection were fairly common, and gestures such as hand-holding and kissing could only bring a smile on the on-watchers’ faces. Hobbit couples were often found hugging, or cuddled together for a nap under a tree. There was no shame in that. But here, in Erebor, Bilbo felt like he wasn’t even allowed to _look_ at Thorin in public for more than ten seconds without it being considered a breach of social etiquette.

One evening at dinner, he had sat with Fili and Kili for a much-needed conversation about the subtleties of dwarven courting. Apparently, public displays of affection were heavily frowned upon, unless you were married or had been courting for a long time. The brothers explained that love was something to be treasured, shared only by the suitor and the intended, and openly showing your love was bound to stir jealousy and envy in other dwarves’ hearts. Besides, there was no need to lay claim on someone like this; the courting braids were there to remind everyone that one’s heart was taken.

Bilbo learnt that light touches, as long as they were brief and discreet, were tolerated as well as the odd hug. But it was far too early in their courting for kissing; he had learnt it the hard way when he had tried to peck Thorin’s cheek – his cheek, for Eru’s sake, his _cheek_! – at dinner after a nice compliment on his choice of clothing, and the dwarf had jerked away from his lips. They had been eating with some members of the Company but dwarves from the Iron Hills as well, hence Thorin’s reaction, but thankfully nobody had seemed to notice the exchange.

This whole business was a bit ridiculous, as far as Bilbo was concerned. It wasn’t as if, as if he was stripping Thorin naked in front of everyone! Was it so bad to show your appreciation to a loved one? A plague on Dwarves and their need for secrecy!

If Bilbo was completely honest with himself, he had to admit he was a bit frustrated. Stolen kisses in a corner and fleeting touches under the table while nobody was looking had his blood running hot, of course, but they were good for young lads in the throes of puppy love. What he felt for Thorin could not be compared to such a fragile fancy; it ran deeper than anything he had ever known, it gave his simple hobbit life a meaning, a purpose.

Thorin was the reason Bilbo was ready to spend the remainder of his days in Erebor, surrounded by Dwarves. As long as he was allowed to tie up some loose ends, of course. He had had all morning to think about the upcoming trip to the Blue Mountains, and how it would conveniently go through the Shire…

“A copper for your thoughts?”

Bilbo’s head snapped up at the familiar voice and smiled when he saw blue eyes gazing at him. “What was it? Ah yes, I think you look very handsome today,” he replied, trying to remember what had been Thorin’s words the night before.

And it was no lie, too. Thorin had abandoned his heavy, fur-lined coat in favor of a blue linen tunic that hugged his upper body quite nicely, if anyone were to ask Bilbo. Black and golden thread weaved intricate patterns into the light fabric that shined when they caught the sunlight. The tunic was tucked inside dark grey trousers and held together by a large, relatively ornament-free black belt.

“I believe the exact word was ‘magnificent’ but I won’t complain.” Thorin came to stand directly in front of Bilbo and lightly touched their foreheads together. “Have you been waiting for long?”

“Not at all. Shall we?”

Thorin nodded and picked up the basket with the food, unheeding Bilbo’s protest that he could do it and walking away from Erebor’s massive gates.

The desolation of Smaug was slowly recovering from decades of ruin by dragon fire. Under the combined efforts of Dwarves and Men, who spent months digging small water channels across the entire plain from the Running River, and thanks to the melting glacier on top of the Lonely Mountain, the vegetation of old was gradually coming back to life. On trees that hadn’t been burnt down to their roots, timid green buds were peeking at the world from tortured branches. Some even had tiny leaves to show off as a testimony to their sturdiness.  Grass was growing fast and aplenty, much to the ponies’ delight, and crops were being actively tended to along the water channels by Men and a few dwarves who seemed to enjoy sunlight more than the rest of their kind.

Bilbo chose a spot on the grass next to a large boulder overlooking the whole plain from the gates of Erebor to Dale, and sat down. He filled his nostrils with the scent of dirt and fresh air, smiling when Thorin sat down next to him close enough for their legs to brush against one another. “Dale is looking very good, have you seen those new roofs?” Bilbo asked, pointing to the bright red tiles that were visible even from afar.

“Yes, I had those tiles made last week, from the clay pit behind Ravenhill,” Thorin nodded, already digging in the basket to pull out the food.

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Well, if I start telling you about every single decision I make, where is the mystery?” the dwarf smiled as he pulled out a knife from his boot and started slicing bread.

“No, I mean I had no idea you could be so nice.”

That comment earned Bilbo a shoulder bump and a snort. “I may not like Men very much, Master Hobbit, but Lord Bard was the one to slay Smaug. And in spite of what I said and did six months ago before we were attacked by orcs, I do not intend to seem ungrateful. He has my recognition, and if I can express my thanks with a few clay tiles, what is keeping me?”

“Don’t get all riled up, it was kind of you, just unexpected is all,” Bilbo chuckled, accepting a slice of bread and some cheese from Thorin’s hands with a nod of thanks. The dwarf had taken to doing small things for Bilbo, from carrying things in his stead to cutting bread for him as he just did. At first, the hobbit had protested that he was not helpless and could take care of himself just fine, thank you. But Thorin had looked so rejected, so _hurt_ that Bilbo just let him take care of things as he saw fit and chose to enjoy the small attentions.

“So, have you spoken with the Company, about that trip to Ered Luin?” Bilbo asked around a mouthful of delicious goat cheese.

Thorin reclined against the boulder, bread in hand, and nodded. “I met some of them this morning. As can be expected, Bombur and Gloin volunteered before I even asked them. Bifur is uncertain, but Bofur is willing to go. Ori was there as well, but I didn’t ask him.”

“Why? Ori is a fine warrior,” Bilbo pointed out.

“Ori is missing a hand. Besides, he is the only decent scribe we have here. If I have to send fighters to defend our people against orcs and goblins, Ori won’t be my choice.” Thorin took a bite and chewed for a while before he resumed talking. “Balin and Oin are too old for such a long trip, after our quest I do not wish to burden their shoulders further. The others I shall see in the afternoon.”

“That leaves you with Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Fili and Kili,” Bilbo counted as he swallowed the last of his cheese. “What are your thoughts?”

“I didn’t want to include my nephews, but leaving Fili in charge for the journey could be a good exercise. And there is a good chance of his brother accompanying him, so that makes two more. Dwalin will say no, I am afraid. As Captain of the Guard he won’t go where I do not, yet I will try to convince him by appointing him as Fili’s bodyguard. Maybe that will sway him.”

Bilbo smiled; months after being crowned King, Thorin still refused to give orders to his friends. He wouldn’t go against somebody’s will and wouldn’t command things without asking first. To the hobbit, it was nothing short of adorable.

“Dori and Nori?”

“I don’t know, both are quite busy as Spymaster and Master of Coin,” Thorin mused, brushing bread crumbs from his beard with a scowl. “I will ask them but I don’t expect them to agree to this trip.”

“So that makes at least six dwarves, and nine at most,” Bilbo summed up. He sucked in a breath and willed himself to stay still. It wouldn’t do if he started squirming as he breached the topic of what had been plaguing his mind all morning. “All great warriors. That’s quite the decent escort.”

“It would be acceptable, sufficient to protect a convoy such as the one leaving from the Blue Mountains.”

“Even more so a single person, I take it?”

Thorin, who had been about to take another bite, halted his movements and his blue eyes closed in on Bilbo, puzzled and a bit wary. “I suppose,” he drawled, never looking away from the hobbit. Bilbo fought his urge to gulp and look away. “Why would you ask?”

The son of Belladonna Took felt every inch the Baggins he was as he sat worrying at his lower lip, racking his brain for a good way to start. When he found none, he just sighed. “Listen, Thorin, I-I would like to be part of the journey as well.”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up so high that Bilbo feared they would actually disappear in his dark mane. He had never seen the dwarf look so flabbergasted, nor did it ever make him feel so stupid. “You?” the King asked. “But… do not take offense, Bilbo, but you are not really fit to defend my people.”

The hobbit couldn’t help but snort. “I have half a mind to remind you that I saved your ungrateful backside on a few occasions, but I will concede that I am hardly bodyguard material. No, if I wish to take part in this trip, it is so I can stop in the Shire and take care of some business that I left unattended when I joined you on your quest.”

There, it was out. Hadn’t been that hard, in fact.

What _was_ hard, on the other hand, was Thorin’s glare. Hard and unwavering.

“What could you possibly have left to do in the Shire?” the dwarf asked, his voice neutral.

“It may have escaped your memory, but my rushing after you last year was completely unplanned,” Bilbo replied, admittedly a bit harshly. “Why, I’m sure the kettle is still on the fire back home! I have to inform my relatives that I am leaving, maybe sell Bag End or hand it over to family…”

“All these things you can do by sending a raven,” Thorin pointed out, putting down his slice of bread. Apparently, his appetite was failing him.

Bilbo looked down and began plucking pebbles from the ground to flick them away. If the brewing volcano in Thorin’s tone was any indication, this conversation was taking a turn for the worse. “Ravens won’t be able to bring me my books and family heirlooms.”

“I won’t risk your life on the road for a few scrolls and stupid doilies,” Thorin snarled.

The words took Bilbo off guard and he froze mid-thought, his eyes involuntarily wide and dumbstruck as he stared at the dwarf. His mouth was open, he knew, but he was unable to produce a single sound, much less form a complete sentence. He was just too shocked.

How could Thorin say this, after everything Bilbo had done to help him win back his own family belongings – for Erebor, as grand and wonderful as it was, was little more than Thorin’s inheritance. And was he just that to Thorin, a token that belonged to the dwarf to do as he wished? The mere thought of it filled Bilbo with anger and an edge of betrayal as well.

Thorin probably noticed the change in his intended’s features, for his own visibly softened and he reached out to grab a hand that Bilbo was not fast enough to snatch away. “I am sorry, it was not my intention to hurt you,” he said gently, cradling the hand that was trying to squirm away. “You have to understand… I came close to losing you too many times already, I would not have us torn apart if I can help it.”

“You said the escort will be sufficient to protect the remainder of your people,” Bilbo mumbled, refusing to meet Thorin’s eyes. “Surely, I wouldn’t be in any danger.”

“You are far too precious for me to risk it.”

“Far too pre… For Eru’s sake, Thorin, I am not made of glass!” Bilbo lashed out, tugging his hand free from the dwarf’s grasp in one swift movement. “Nor am I a pretty jewel to be locked up and looked at from time to time! Is this how Dwarves court? Am I to never set foot farther than one yard from Erebor’s gates in my whole life?”

The small outburst unsettled Thorin, but the dwarf chose not to respond in kind and retained a calm front. “I do not wish to ‘lock’ you up, beloved,” the King said softly, and the unusual endearment sent a pleasant shiver down Bilbo’s spine in spite of the situation, “but if I were to lose you… my heart could not bear it.”

Anger and resentment instantly melted away in Bilbo’s chest at the confession, replaced by fondness and empathy. Of course, Thorin had known nothing but loss in his life; first Erebor, then his grandfather, his brother, and his father. He never talked about his mother, but Bilbo knew she was deceased as well. The King Under the Mountain had come close to losing his only nephews, and himself, in the Battle of Five Armies. Of course he would try to protect Bilbo with all his might.

The hobbit reached out and tangled a hand in Thorin’s dark hair, tugging him close – dwarven sense of propriety be damned – to lay a kiss on his brow. “You won’t lose me,” he whispered, his breath making a few black strands quiver. “I won’t be leaving your side. But I need to leave my life in Hobbiton behind, and I want to do it properly.”

“I have only just got you,” Thorin mumbled, “and you are running away.”

“I am not, silly dwarf,” Bilbo scoffed, scooting closer to wrap an arm around Thorin’s broad shoulders – or at least, attempt to do so. “With ponies and no need to keep our journey a secret this time, it should not take long to make it there and back again.”

“We are still talking about months.” Thorin’s blue eyes travelled up to Bilbo’s, anxious and doubtful. “I am not certain I could withstand being parted from you for that long.”

The hobbit resisted the urge to coo. Despite their burly appearance and ill tempers, Dwarves could be very endearing when they put a mind to it. “You could always come along too, you are a warrior after all.”

“And leave Erebor without a King once more?” Thorin snorted, shaking his head. “Dwarven ale has affected your wits, my hobbit, if you start having ideas like these.”

“Dáin would make a good Steward, he already proved it,” Bilbo shrugged, running his fingers through thick blades of grass absentmindedly. “Most dwarves in Erebor are from the Iron Hills, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. And with Balin at the head of the Council, you would have nothing to fear. I know most of your decisions are actually his, and don’t try to deny it,” he said firmly when Thorin opened his mouth to protest.

“Be that as it may,” the dwarf growled lowly, “I cannot afford it. Erebor is still healing.”

“Have it your way. I am sure Dwalin won’t mind if I cuddle up to him at night if it’s cold, anyway.” Bilbo’s chuckles turned into full blown laughter at Thorin’s horrified face. He took pity on the dwarf and patted a thick forearm. “Peace, Thorin, I was joking. But still, promise to think about including me in your plans for the journey?”

Thorin sighed heavily and thought for a few moments. “On the condition,” he said eventually, “that you swear to be as quick as possible, to stay safe and to return to me unscathed.” At Bilbo’s frantic nod, the dwarf gave a half-hearted hum. “Then I promise to think about it, you have my word.”

“Thank you, dear! You are the best!” Throwing caution and dwarven etiquette to the winds, Bilbo flung his arms around Thorin’s sturdy frame and leaned in his suitor’s lap for a kiss. Caught a bit off guard, Thorin leaned back against the boulder for support as, instinctively, his arms shot up to steady Bilbo and his eyes darted around for possible onlookers.

And unfortunately, there were. Of the most unpleasant kind, too.

Gently, Thorin pulled back and lingered near Bilbo’s ear long enough to whisper: “Stay here, I will be right back.” The hobbit sat back down on the ground and watched on quizzically as his dwarf got to his feet, dusted himself off and started walking. Had he done something wrong? Well, aside from kissing, which was apparently a very sinful thing to do in broad daylight on dwarven territory. He had expected Thorin to scowl, not walk away.

But when Bilbo’s eyes settled on the dwarf’s destination, it suddenly became very clear. With a grin that was probably far too smug and snarky for a respectable hobbit, Bilbo settled comfortably against the boulder at his back and grabbed himself an apple. It was a beautiful, sunny day in the great dwarven kingdom of Erebor, he had good food within reaching range, and he wouldn’t mind a bit of a show to go with it.

And if the dark storm brewing in Thorin’s eyes as he marched over to where Yóna was standing – with a few other ladies and a disdainful sneer on her face that reminded Bilbo of a certain cousin of his – was any hint, this particular show was going to be spectacular indeed.

 


	5. An Unplanned Departure

Thorin never needed to wear his crown for people to recognize him as King, and as such everybody in the small group of dwarves gave a respectful bow as he neared them. Even Yóna, who pasted a wide – but very, very strained – smile on her features as well.

“Good morning,” he said when he reached them. “Or maybe should I say good afternoon.”

“It is a nice day either way, Your Highness,” Yóna said sweetly. “I see you are enjoying a bit of sunlight, as we do.”

Thorin saw her golden eyes darting back to where Bilbo was still sitting, but he chose to overlook it. For now. “Indeed. And where are you off to on this fine day, if I may ask?”

“Oh, we were just taking a walk to Dale, we heard they have the finest bakers in Rhovanion,” the dwarrowdam explained, then gestured to an older, dark-haired female. “Genka’s husband is working in the fields, we are off to see him as well.”

Thorin nodded. He only knew of one married dwarf who tended to the crops, and that was Korax. A brave, red-haired hunter who divided his time between plowing fields and scouring the plains with his bow. He had been one of the few dwarves who had volunteered to help the men from Dale with their soil, lending a hand to build small farms here and there, and would forever have Thorin’s gratitude for it.

“Very well, then, I would be most obliged if you send everyone my best regards,” the King said.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Yóna nodded, and her mouth twitched before she added: “Should I send your… ‘intended’’s as well? I’ve heard it say that he’s rather… well-liked around Erebor.”

Thorin fought a dark smirk; he had been waiting for the young female to slip, and he hadn’t been disappointed. He crossed his hands behind his back to maintain a casual front – and stop his fingers from twitching in anger as he remembered what terms she liked to use to describe Bilbo – his head tilting to the side in his best attempt at genuine puzzlement. He had never been one for acting, even when he was young, and probably wouldn’t be able to lie to someone’s face to save his life. But he would try.

“Indeed, that would be most kind.  Though I can’t help but wonder how you came by such an assumption.”

A well-placed frown and a dangerously low tone were, most of the time, enough to send anyone cowering under the King’s glare. But this dwarrowdam was clearly made of different stuffing, for she held his gaze and even raised her chin a little. Was it sheer recklessness, or did she really think she had some kind of power over Thorin simply because she was a female?

Admittedly, Thorin liked to meet people who had a bit of fire in them. But at the moment, this only served to aggravate him further.

“Just common knowledge, Majesty,” Yóna said matter-of-factly, almost waving it off. “Miners and traders talk, and it just so happens that your intended’s unusual nature is what they are interested in at the moment.”

“With a little help from you, I gather,” he drawled darkly.

“Your Highness?”

The game was off. Ever since he had learnt about the awful names Bilbo went by in the halls of his precious home thanks to Yóna’s contribution, Thorin’s fury had been bubbling right under his skin, threatening to explode at any given time. He had no more patience left to spare.  

“Had you been a male I would have had your tongue cut out and nailed to the Gates,” Thorin snarled, his sudden change in demeanor making the small group recoil in surprise and fright. “As it is, you are not, which is quite unfortunate.”

Yóna didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. She only widened her eyes and pretended to be startled. “My King, I am not sure I unders-”

“From now on, let it be said that I expect nothing less than respect and deference when you speak to or about Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin growled, not giving her a chance to reply. It was probably improper to address a dwarrowdam like this, but he was King, and what kind of suitor would he be if he let his intended’s name be soiled without doing anything to prevent it? “If news reach my ears that you have instigated more foul talk about my One, there will be consequences. Most of which will involve a pony ready for you at dawn and a map of the Eastern Reaches. Is that clear?” When the female didn’t answer, Thorin’s voice took on a dangerous, biting edge. “Is that _clear_?”

“He is a _halfling_!” Yóna finally squeaked, and the other members of her small group took a step back, wary of the exchange taking place before their eyes. “It’s just… it’s unnatural! We do not marry out of our kind! It is bad enough that you are both males, but this-”

“I must be dreaming. For one second, I was under the impression that you were insulting the King’s intended and implying that said King was making a stupid mistake. Please tell me I heard wrong.”

Yóna opened her mouth to let fly another colorful comment, but Thorin’s black glare had her stopping short. She was young, and apparently very bold, but she also valued her life. Or so it seemed. “My apologies, Your Highness,” she muttered half-heartedly. “I shall not speak ill of the halfl- of Bilbo Baggins ever again.”

“Much better. Now, as it is not my intention to keep you from your daily activities, I will let you be on your way. Have a good day.” Thorin turned on his heels, but shot the offending female a look over his shoulder.  “Show such disrespect again, and I won’t be that forgiving. Nor will I seek privacy when I deal with you.”

With those final parting words, Thorin walked away from the small group of unsettled dwarves. He could almost feel the disarray and distress coming off in waves against his back, and he was not disturbed to find that he liked it. Being King meant nothing if he didn’t have some amount of power over other dwarves, and though he loathed using fear to his advantage, he was reassured to find that it was still effective. If only to set a few wandering souls right from time to time.

Thorin unclenched his fists, hissing under his breath when his fingernails were dislodged from his palms. To be truthful, he was proud he hadn’t lost all control and chewed Yóna out as hard as he itched to. He was getting good at reining his anger in, and though it was especially difficult whenever Bilbo was involved, maintaining a composed front was getting easier with each passing day.

The sound of clapping drew Thorin from his thoughts, and it came to his attention that he had walked over to where his hobbit was still sitting. Bilbo was slowly applauding him, an unreadable expression stretched across his hairless features. “Funnily enough, I am disappointed,” he said when Thorin sat back down beside him. “I expected more shouting and some blood, too.”

Thorin chuckled and plucked a red apple from their basket. “What can I say, somehow you have managed to make a decent dwarf out of me.”

“Now, that’s a feat I cannot take credit for.” Bilbo rolled his eyes when Thorin bit into the apple with the same delicacy that he would show while chopping wood, sending a trickle of juice down his chin and into his beard. “Were I in charge of your education, you would have much better table manners.”

“Would I, now? I do not remember participating in the food fight in Rivendell, or in Lake-town, nor do I recall taking any part in the raiding of your pantry in Bag End which, according to you, was quite the dreadful event. I don’t think my table manners are as bad as you say.”

“The mere fact that you just wiped your mouth on your sleeve tells me otherwise.” Bilbo fished in one of his pockets for his handkerchief and cleaned Thorin’s mouth free of the sticky amber fluid. He hummed disapprovingly when the dwarf squirmed away from the gesture with a scowl. “Here. At least you seem to tolerate a bit a green food from time to time, so I guess it’s better than nothing.”

From the corner of his eye, Thorin watched as Yóna’s group moved away towards Dale. Some dark, fierce part of himself wished for the young female’s mouth to run again, just so he would have an excuse to unleash his anger. He would not – could not – bodily harm her, but he knew that words sometimes hurt more than a dagger to the knee.

“Some lemon pie, dear?”

“Most gladly.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next week was, to Thorin’s mild disappointment, relatively free of anyone speaking ill of Bilbo. He had Nori scouring the kingdom, down to the deepest mine shafts, but no report of disrespect came back to him. Apparently, the message had gotten across that the King’s intended was not to be messed with – as if anyone needed a direct warning about it.

In the course of the very same week, Thorin had gone over possible trip arrangements to the Blue Mountains. As could be expected, Fili had been proud to be put in charge of the escort and had sworn that he would not disappoint. His younger brother, unsurprisingly, was eager to follow his sibling for another adventure in Eriador. Thorin suspected some of his enthusiasm was due to a possible passage through Mirkwood and a chance to see a certain elf again…

Getting Dwalin to go along had taken some coercing. At first the inked dwarf had flat out refused to be part of this journey where he would not be able to have an eye on Thorin. But the idea that the King’s heirs were going to travel unsafe roads without proper protection – and Dwalin considered any company devoid of his presence poorly protected – swayed the tattooed dwarf and had him chasing Thorin down a corridor one day, grumbling out that he would be ready to go whenever his King saw fit.

Unlike his cousins, Bifur had elected to stay in Erebor. Thorin hadn’t pushed the matter but, according to Bofur, the Khuzdul-speaking dwarf was still suffering from a pelvis fracture dealt in the Battle of Five Armies. A wound that would certainly be quite a nuisance, as far as pony-riding was concerned.

Since Dori and Nori were, as predicted, very busy with their respective assignations as Master of Coin and Spymaster – and their services were invaluable to Thorin, who held their hindsight in high regards – in the Council, the ‘escort’ came to a grand total of six dwarves.

And one hobbit. Of course.

Thorin groaned as he set his quill down beside the scroll he was writing on. He had had no choice but to agree to let Bilbo tag along. The dwarf couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had agreed to this; maybe the third time his intended had cornered him late at night as he made his way back to his rooms, tired and wanting for his bed. A plague on the sneakiness of hobbits! They had a knack for taking advantage of moments of weakness to get their way.

Then again, he wasn’t sure he could have said ‘No’ to Bilbo and lived with himself. The hobbit was willing to forsake everything he had ever known in favor of a brand new life in Erebor; the last Thorin could do was allow him to give his former life a proper ending. The dwarven King knew he would miss his One’s presence, even suffer from it much like Bombur and Gloin had during their quest to reclaim Erebor, but he would bear it.

In the end, it would be worth it.

Then why, four days after he had begun telling himself that every two hours, did his heart still feel so heavy and burdened?

Thorin rubbed the bridge of his nose and took up his quill again. He had to finish his letter so it could be sent out at dawn by their fastest raven. Ered Luin was almost on the other side of the world, and although he had learned to trust the great black wings long ago, Thorin wished for his sister to be informed of the change of plans as soon as possible.

After a great deal of thinking, Thorin had decided that the small company from Erebor would wait for the caravans of the Blue Mountains in the Shire. Since the Vale of Thrain and the Low-Lands were relatively safe, they could afford to wait for Durin’s Folk in Hobbiton, where Bilbo would have plenty of time – a handful of weeks, if Thorin’s calculations were right – to tie up loose ends and take care of Bag End’s future.

The King yawned; the hour was late and his writing sloppy. His bed was but a few feet behind him and he longed to throw himself on the furs for a well-deserved rest, but he knew the unfinished letter would plague his dreams. So he willed his hand to work and the words to come to his mind as he scratched away at the weathered parchment.

Minutes later, Thorin had put his quill down and was in the process of proof-reading his message for spelling mistakes – Mahal, had he really written ‘Boggins’ instead of ‘Baggins’? – when there was a muffled knock at the door. The King frowned. He wasn’t expecting visitors, especially not at such a late hour.

“Come in,” he said, putting his scroll down and instinctively reaching for Orcrist that was propped up against his writing desk. It was more a habit than anything else; he doubted that real enemies would actually be polite enough to knock before barging in.

“Ah, my hands are little busy at the moment, would you mind opening the door for me?”

Thorin gave a tired but fond smile at the familiar voice and got up. He straightened the simple black shirt and trousers that he wore for bed, and briefly considered a change of clothes. He shrugged the idea off and made his way over to the door; Bilbo had seen him in much less appropriate clothing, after all.

When Thorin opened the door, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Busy hands indeed; Bilbo was balancing a tray laden with two steaming mugs of what looked like a dark blend of tea and a plate of freshly baked pastries. The hobbit seemed to shake from the sheer weight of his load, and gave Thorin a mildly annoyed look. “Well, don’t just stand there! Either help me or let me through, you rude dwarf!”

Thorin leaned over to take the tray from Bilbo’s hands and closed the door when the hobbit was inside. His intended looked handsome wearing a deep blue waistcoat that hugged his small frame quite nicely, but the rolled up sleeves and mussed mop of curly hair spoke of labor.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” the dwarf asked, walking over to his bed to deposit the tray. “You need your strength for tomorrow.”

“Well, I packed a few things and I helped Bombur stock up food for the trip,” Bilbo explained as he rubbed his strained arms. He left a trail of soft footfalls as he padded over to the bed and sat on its edge, next to the tray. “Since I was in the kitchens, I thought it would be nice to bake a thing or two and come over to see you.”

Thorin nodded, settling down on the other side of the tray. It had been a while since Bilbo’s last visit for a midnight cup of tea, and he welcomed it with open arms. Especially since it would be some time until they had the opportunity to spend another evening with each other. “So, are you ready?” the King asked casually, ignoring the ice-cold grip on his heart. “I trust you haven’t forgotten your handkerchief this time around?”

Bilbo scoffed and reached over the tray to tug gently at Thorin’s courting braid. “No, this time I come prepared. I even have a change of pants in case it starts raining or I get muddy.”

“Mahal save us all,” Thorin smirked, snatching a tiny turnover from the plate and nibbling on it. The treat was still warm and crusty. “Before you leave, make sure you take some gold from the treasure room, in case you need anything on the way.”

“Thorin, that won’t be necessary, I still have most of my share from the quest.”

“Now, that is a lie and we both know it,” the dwarf stated, grabbing a cup of tea and scooting further up on the bed to settle against a pillow. “You had most of it shipped to Dale the day I agreed to give Lord Bard enough gold to rebuild the city. Nothing in Erebor escapes my notice,” he added smugly when Bilbo’s mouth fell open in surprise.

“You had Nori spying on me!”

“Such hard words. ‘Looking after your well-being while I was unable to’ has a nicer ring to it.”

Bilbo grumbled undistinguishable, and probably very offensive, words as he took his own steaming cup and crawled up to sit next to Thorin. “Very well, then, but only a few coins. And you’ll show me what I can or cannot take.”

The King chuckled bitterly. “The first time you saw the hoard was the last time I did, âzyungel. You should rather ask Dori, I expect he knows more about this matter than I do.”

Bilbo hesitated, then nodded. He had enough wits to refrain from asking why Thorin hadn’t been to the treasure room for so long, and for that the dwarf was grateful. He wanted to enjoy his One’s company, and not explain how he was living in fear of falling prey to gold-sickness anew.

They spent the next moments sitting side by side, their shoulders brushing intimately whenever they raised their cup of tea to their lips for a sip. Thorin was glad for the hot beverage, which was little more than an excuse to busy his mouth at that point, since he had no idea what he ought to say next. What do you tell your beloved before a long, possibly dangerous journey, without sounding like a pleading mess?

He was past trying to get Bilbo to stay; the hobbit’s stubbornness rivalled even the most pig-headed of dwarves’ and there was no swaying him from his goal. And telling him to be careful would imply that the shireling was incapable of looking after himself which, of course, was untrue and would doubtlessly irk Bilbo. So what then?

Soon, too soon, their cups were empty and the pastries gone from this world, and Thorin was still at a loss. He had never been good with words, had never quite managed to pour his heart into them much like his sister could. Dís was never tongue-tied; unlike him, she would know what to say.

Thorin was saved from further nerve-wrecking thoughts when Bilbo spoke up softly.

“Will you come and see me off tomorrow?”

There was so much hesitation, so much doubt in that single question that Thorin’s heart couldn’t help but ache a bit. “Of course, âzyungel, why in Durin’s name would I not?”

Bilbo shrugged, one hand absently stroking the black wolf fur in front of him. “I don’t know, you could have had a meeting, or a patrol, whatever it is Kings do in the morning.”

Thorin sighed and wrapped an arm around the hobbit’s shoulders, pulling him close into his side. “Nothing will keep me from seeing you off, Bilbo. Not even another fire drake.” He backed his promise with a warm kiss to his intended’s brow.

“Oh, good. Good. For some reason I thought you were still mad at me for leaving.”

“Mad at you?” Thorin blinked. “I never was ‘mad at you’. It’s true that I dislike the idea, for a considerable amount of reasons that I will not bring up again-”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“- but I know it matters a lot to you. And if a few months away from you is the price to pay, then I shall endure it.”

Thorin might not be a master with words, but his answer seemed to satisfy Bilbo, who scooted closer to snuggle into the crook of his shoulder, one arm thrown across the dwarf’s bulky abdomen. The dwarf tangled a hand in the mop of curly hair on his chest and massaged Bilbo’s scalp, chuckling when the hobbit let out a mewl-like sound and wrapped a leg around one of his. If Thorin had any power over it, he would not have this evening end for all the gold in Erebor.

Unfortunately, there were things gold couldn’t buy on Arda.

“I’ll miss you,” came the words, mouthed against his chest and so muffled by his shirt that he almost didn’t catch them.

“I will miss you too, beloved,” Thorin whispered back, tucking the smaller head under his chin and wriggling a little to wrap his other arm around Bilbo. “More so than you think.”

In the semi-darkness, the silence grew comfortable and intimate as both males relished in one another’s presence. Bilbo’s nimble hand was drawing mindless, pleasant patterns over the expanse of hard chest under his cheek, while Thorin enjoyed the soft kisses of honeyed curls over his nose. In light of the hearty fire illuminating the room, the short locks were golden and shining like tiny Suns on his intended’s head.

Thorin was torn between sending Bilbo back to his rooms for the night and asking the hobbit to spend the remaining hours before dawn by his side. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he didn’t know which option would cause less harm to his heart.

Once more, choice was tugged out of his reach when Bilbo’s hand stilled and soft, muffled snores filled the air. He had, apparently, been more tired than he let on. Thorin quickly brushed aside the idea of waking Bilbo up and, with some effort, brought one corner of the heavy blue duvet up and over the shireling. It was relatively warm in the bedroom, but Bilbo’s feet were bare and Thorin knew that at some point in the night the fire would burn itself out. It wouldn’t do to send a sneezing and sniffling hobbit out on the road.

Carefully enough so that Bilbo would not be jostled out of sleep, Thorin settled down in his pillows and claimed another corner of the bedclothes as his own for the night. Safe and warm as he felt in that oddly-shaped cocoon, the dwarf doubted he would slumber. He had been ready to drop earlier, sitting at his desk, but Bilbo’s breathing and weight on his body had him fully awake.

The King allowed his mind to wander for a few moments. It took him back to their months on the road, to the sight of a small bundle of shivering flesh across camp on cold nights. A fool of a dwarf he had been, then, turning a blind eye on the hobbit’s discomfort and leaving him alone to deal with the harsh weather. He had redeemed himself on some level, for after their tussle with Azog in the Misty Mountains and their highly unpleasant stay in the Elvenking’s dungeons, he wouldn’t rest easily whenever Bilbo was sleeping further than a hairbreadth away. At that time, a mere foot between their bodies had seemed more than enough for the hobbit to be vulnerable to all kinds of danger.

And for the next few months, there was going to be much, much more than a foot keeping them apart.

A sudden wave of protectiveness came over Thorin and he held Bilbo tighter, drawing a small noise of protest from the slumbering form. Oh, he wished there was a way to keep Bilbo forever out of harm’s way without caging him, but this was the world they were born to and it would never be as safe as he would like it to be. Bilbo’s safety, whether inside or outside of Erebor’s walls, could not be guaranteed even with a thousand guards stuck to his furry heels.

For now, Thorin would watch over Bilbo for the remainder of the night, until dawn came and tore his One away from his arms. And his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“I have come across a few mother hens in my life, but you, Thorin Oakenshield, just take the cake!” Bilbo scoffed and crossed his arms where he stood next to his pony, his reins tightly clutched in one hand. “I am not a fluffy fledgling, I’ll have you know I can take care of myself just fine.”

“I was just pointing out that I find your pack a bit light,” the King said calmly, his hands tying a last knot to secure Bilbo’s bundle on the white pony’s hindquarters. “I trust you took a blanket?”

“Yes,” came the short, sour reply.

“You should have taken a thicker bedroll, rocks and roots will dig right through this one and into your back.”

“I’m not that heavy, I will be fine.”

“Have you packed that salve Oin made? You haven’t been on a pony for some time now, and saddle sores are-”

“Thorin!” Bilbo hissed, cutting right through the dwarf’s embarrassing rambling. Dwalin and Bofur were already in their saddles and were watching on with a mirthful glint in their eyes. “I will be _fine_. Will you please stop making me the laughing stock of the Eastern Reaches?”

The insufferable dwarven lump took a look around and only then seemed to realize that they were watched. Not only by the other members of the small party – who had the decency to appear busy with their saddles or worried over something in their ponies’ manes when the King glanced their way – but by a small gathering of dwarves that had formed by the Great Gates as well. While they were too far away to actually hear their exchange, Thorin’s behavior could hardly be mistaken for anything else than a fussing mother’s.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf mumbled, casting his blue eyes to the ground in thought. “I am just… nervous, I suppose.”

Bilbo’s annoyance flew away and he reached out to cup one bearded cheek. “Everything will turn out fine, Thorin, you shouldn’t worry so much.”

“Or should I?” The King gave a mock snort. “Last time I let you out of my sight for more than a week, you ended up stuffing me in a barrel and throwing me down a torrent where I had to avoid getting pierced by a hundred orc’s arrows. Mahal knows what kind of fate will befall me upon your return.”

Bilbo chuckled and wrapped his arms around Thorin who slowly returned the hug. The hobbit buried his face into the solid chest to commit its warmth to memory. It was for the best, he knew, but his heart was reluctant to be parted from Thorin’s so soon after they had given in to their feelings. He would return, eventually, and they would pick up where they left off, together.

One large hand came to rest on Bilbo’s head, fingers tangling gently in the shaggy curls. “There is no guaranty that your journey will be a safe one, but please, at least promise me to remain cautious?” came the whispered plea, and Bilbo was sure this was as close to begging as Thorin would ever get.

“Of course, dear heart. You have my word.”

After one last squeeze, Bilbo stepped back and did his best to give Thorin a beaming smile. He longed to grab that bearded face and kiss those brooding lips senseless, but there were eyes on them and he wouldn’t discredit the King Under the Mountain in front of his peers.

The hobbit would have been glad to just stare at his dwarf for the next hour or so; alas time wouldn’t wait, and it was well into the morning already. Thorin understood, however, for he dropped to one knee and allowed Bilbo to use his thigh as leverage to haul himself up and in his saddle. Snowball, young pony that he was, gave a nervous neigh at his small master’s sudden movement but a good pat on the neck from Thorin’s large hand soothed the beast.

Bilbo wriggled a bit, trying to settle comfortably in the leather saddle with his back against his travelling pack and his legs hugging Snowball’s sides, though too short to properly reach the pony’s flanks. He was glad he had chosen loose hobbit clothing for the day, it would be much more pleasant to ride in than fancy dwarven overcoats. They were lovely, but unfit for travel.

Something tugged at his leg and Bilbo looked down to see that Thorin had his furry ankle clasped in one large hand, as well as an unreadable expression on his face. His other hand was holding the reins just beneath Snowball’s mouth, as if he was somehow afraid that Bilbo would take off at moment’s notice – which was, of course, preposterous.

Another tug, another insistent look, and Bilbo dipped his head to listen to whatever the King apparently wanted to say. His eyes went wide when, instead of muttering words of concern once more, Thorin leaned up to capture his lips in a gentle, yet passionate kiss. The contact was controlled and warm, and though it was brief, it ignited a fire in Bilbo’s cheeks that reached up to the very tip of his ears.

When Thorin pulled away, the hobbit let his forehead rest against long strands of dark hair. “Everyone’s watching,” was the first thing that came to his mind and escaped his mouth.

“Let them,” the King growled. “I couldn’t care less. Just make sure you come back to me.”

“I will.” Bilbo nestled his nose into Thorin’s mane for a last, solid kiss. “I will.”

“Fear not, Uncle!” Kili said cheerfully as he walked his pony next to Bilbo’s. “We will protect our burglar with our very lives, if it comes down to it. Won’t we, brother?”

“Aye, no doubt about it,” Fili nodded, not yet seated atop his pony and still in the process of buckling his saddle properly.

Thorin’s blue eyes narrowed in on his nephews. “You two, act your age for once and don’t fool around. Fili, you are in charge, but don’t go and take any unnecessary risk on this journey. Stick to Dwalin.”

Fili rolled his eyes, climbing into his saddle and nudging his black pony until he was next to his younger brother. “I promise we will all be careful, Uncle. We won’t disappoint.”

Thorin nodded, patting each young dwarf’s knee with a hand. “Stick to the paths. Bandits are easier to deal with than foul creatures that hide in the wilderness.” The King’s eyes softened and he allowed a small smile to grace his lips. “And send my love to your mother. Tell her I can’t wait to show her our home.”

“Agreed, Uncle.”

“Good lads.” Thorin turned at the sound of hooves hitting rock, and nodded when Dwalin, Gloin, Bombur and Bofur neared him. “I am not one for great speeches, as you might already know. I would just like to wish you a safe journey and a quick return trip. May Mahal’s blessing accompany you with every step.”

The six dwarves gave grunts of acknowledgment and after a last promise to be careful, they set off. Dwalin was the first to nudge his pony down the road, the twin axes tied together behind his saddle clinking away with every step. He was closely followed by Fili and Kili, who waved back at Thorin and kept shouting their reassurances until they were out of earshot. Bofur rode beside Gloin, each steering not only their mount but one additional pony laden with supplies. And last was Bombur, perched atop a particularly hardy brown pony that, at least for now, didn’t seem to be bothered by the strenuous weight atop its back.

Bilbo shifted in his saddle. Finally, he took up his reins and locked eyes with Thorin for the last time. There was worry in the cobalt blue pools, doubt as well, but most of all there was love. So with a last fond smile, Bilbo spurred his pony on the road after the other dwarves.

He kept the smile on as long as he could, but he never looked back. The hobbit wasn’t sure his resolve would stand it.

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as the small party disappeared behind the first hill, Thorin turned on his heels and strode back inside Erebor. He ignored the confused faces and came close to shoving those who weren’t quick enough to get out of his way in time. He climbed the first staircase he found three steps at a time, his heavy boots hitting the cold stone with force until he found himself on the large balcony overlooking the plains, up high on the Great Gates of Erebor.

Thorin leaned on the thick guardrail and brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the rising sun. It took him no time at all to sight the nine ponies walking in line down the road. Dwalin and Fili were leading, with Kili sticking close to his brother as was his habit. Gloin and Bofur were still riding side by side, and Bilbo had caught up with Bombur.

They were already so far away. Soon, Thorin would not be able to recognize Bilbo’s curly head…

“You know, you run fast, for an old lad.”

Thorin’s head whipped around. His cheeks red and his breath coming out in pants, Dáin emerged from the staircase and came to lean heavily on the guardrail next to his cousin.

“I am not old,” the King replied.

“Well, older than me, in any case.”

“And yet you are the one looking like you had to outrun a warg.”

“True, true.” The Lord of the Iron Hills peered out at the expanse of land before them. “They have departed, then. Six dwarves, one hobbit. Do you think this will be enough?”

“I cannot know for certain. I can only hope.” Thorin sighed and leaned his elbows on the broad guardrail, watching the company as huge banners flapped in the early morning wind.

His composure recovered, Dáin flashed Thorin a mildly annoyed glance. “It was sheer luck, dear King, that my son had dinner with your nephews yesterday. Otherwise I would have never been made aware of this little scheme of yours to send out an escort to the Blue Mountains.”

“What of it?” Thorin would be eternally grateful for Dáin’s help in reclaiming and rebuilding Erebor, but that insufferable Ironfoot had a knack for getting his nose in other people’s business that he found a bit aggravating on the best of days.

“Why didn’t you ask me? I would have had an entire squadron ready for you in hours, you just had to say the word.” Dáin crossed his arms over his gold-embroidered chest. “You always know you can-”

“This mission is my concern and mine alone,” Thorin snarled, turning darkened blue eyes to his cousin. “This people is mine to take care of, I won’t involve you or any of your dwarves if I can help it!”

The tirade had Dáin wordlessly staring at Thorin, eyes wide and a bit bewildered. It was the first time the dwarven King had managed to have that silver tongue tied, and he wasn’t even feeling proud about it. A wave of shame and guilt washed over him as his words caught up to him, his shoulders slumping. “Forgive me, Dáin,” he muttered, running a weary hand down his face. “I’m afraid I am not feeling well today. I did not mean to snap at you.”

“No offense taken, cousin. I too had to part from my One to come here, I understand.” A highly undignified noise escaped Thorin’s throat as he faced the Lord of the Iron Hills who, far from being offended, was looking at him with a large smile. “Oh, spot on! Damn, I’m good at this.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, and no, he wasn’t squirming.

“You are not worried about your people, cousin. You are worried about the halfling.” Dáin pasted a concerned look on his features and rubbed at his greying beard. “I admit I understand. Such a small creature, thrown into this great, dangerous world. It is a wonder he yet lives.”

“He is not as helpless as he looks,” Thorin countered, feeling the urge to defend Bilbo. “But you are right. I am worried that he might get hurt, or… or worse.” A disgusting shiver ran down his spine at the thought of a world without Bilbo by his side. Some things were better left ignored.

“Why didn’t you go with him, then? To keep him safe?”

If the noise from before had been undignified, then this one was bordering on obscene. Thorin was thoroughly baffled by Dáin’s behavior. He had – indirectly – rejected Dihla, choosing instead to court someone outside of their race and considered of lower standing by many. And his cousin, as any respectable dwarf, ought to be irked, outraged even. Not genuinely concerned.

“Besides,” Dáin pursued, giving Thorin no time to cut in, “who better than yourself would be able to protect both your One _and_ your people? Six dwarves is a good number, but seven has an even nicer ring to it, don’t you think?”

Had that devil from the Iron Hills been spending time with Bilbo? It felt like Thorin was reliving one of the arguments he had had with his intended in the course of the previous week. “I would be lying if I said I never thought about it,” the dwarf drawled. “But I belong here, in Erebor. I risked my life for these walls. I won’t abandon them so easily.”

To Thorin’s surprise, his cousin had the cheek to snort. “Who said anything about abandoning them? Thorin, you have trusted advisors, and the Counsellors are so well-versed in the way you think that they could almost rule by themselves. And need I remind you that I guarded your throne for weeks, back when you were still recovering? I would have bitten the head off of any fool who dared approach it with ill will, and I would do it all over gladly.”

It was Thorin’s turn to be speechless. “I am… Dáin, Kings don’t shrink from their duties and run away, especially not when their kingdom is being nursed back to life.”

“Well, Kings don’t hide in a corner and send forth a hobbit to deal with a dragon by himself, but I reckon it didn’t bother you then.” When Thorin’s hands tightened on the parapet and a shudder ran through him, Dáin’s tone softened. “Thorin, this is your people waiting on the other side of Middle-Earth. Your kin. Nobody will think less of you if you leave Erebor to see them safely home. Now,” the Lord cleared his throat, leaning sideways against the guardrail in a casual pose, “will you offend me further or will you accept my help?”

Thorin’s eyes darted back to the small escort. They were much farther now, tiny moving dots under the morning sun. But not completely out of sight. “I have burdened you so much already…”

“Nonsense!” Dáin waved the comment off as he would a bothersome fly. “I have been ordering people around in the Iron Hills for the past century and a half, it is more a habit than a burden at this point. Just say the word, cousin.”

A plague on Dáin II Ironfoot and that silly silver tongue of his! Now Thorin didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t want to desert his prized city, but it was true that he longed to protect his kin – and Bilbo – himself. His kingdom would be safe in Dáin’s capable hands, with Balin’s wits and Dori’s quick thinking to back him up, still Thorin felt self-conscious. His father wouldn’t have approved, and his grandfather even less. Somehow, he felt that they would view it as betrayal.

“Thorin?”

“I haven’t packed anything,” was all the dwarven King could reply, and it sounded poor even to his own ears. “By the time I am ready to go, they will have left the plains. This isn’t meant to be.”

“Your lack of faith sometimes makes me wonder how you came to achieve so much all these years.” With a dramatic sigh, Dáin flung his upper body over the parapet. For one frightful, bewildered second, the dwarven King was convinced his cousin had finally gone mad and wished to end his life, but the younger dwarf just stayed where he was, carefully balanced over the thick guardrail. “Thorin! Oi my boy, I’m up there!”

“I can see that,” Thorin said slowly, doubting the other dwarf’s sanity in the end. “And if I may, what you are doing now looks very life-threatening.”

“Not speaking to you, cousin. Oi Thorin! Run to the stables and have the King’s pony all saddled up and ready to go. And make it quick, will you.”

“Aye, Father!” came a youthful voice from below. Thorin chanced a glance down the balcony and sure enough, a young chestnut-haired lad was looking up at them with a grin. Of course. He had forgotten that Dáin’s son and himself shared the same name. “Isn’t there something you must take care of first, though?”

The Lord of the Iron Hills grumbled colorful Khuzdul words under his breath and dug a hand in his pocket, extracting a few golden coins that he flung to his son. “There, you goblin wart, now off with you!”

“Yes, Father! Your Highness,” Thorin III said with a little bow to the King, before he scurried off.

“He will be the death of me yet, but he is a good lad,” Dáin said as he set his booted feet back on the ground and dusted himself off. He was in the process of combing his fingers through his beard to smooth it out when he noticed Thorin’s puzzled glare. “Ah. I may have had a little bet with my son, regarding whether or not you would depart this morning.”

“And you bet I would elect to stay in Erebor?” The black-haired dwarf frowned. If that was the case, then why had his cousin worked so hard to convince him to leave?

“As I’ve said, dreadful lack of faith. I bet you would refuse, mope around for most of the morning and then depart in the afternoon. Turns out my lad has more hindsight than I do.” Dáin shook his head, the golden beads in his beard and hair clinking together gently. “Now, I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I can tell a King what to do, but don’t you have things to pack?”

Thorin only hesitated a second before his feet took off and he was running down the staircase before he even made the conscious decision to do so. Amidst the heavy thuds of metal-capped boots hitting the steps and the persistent rustling of his clothes against his skin, a light voice began chanting in the dwarf’s head. It sang of joy at being spared the absence of his One, and of thrill at being reunited with his kin. It sang of wet grass under pony hooves and stories shared around the fire. It sang of lifeblood pumping through his body as it readied itself for another journey.

Thorin felt more alive than he had in weeks.

He paused in the middle of the stone-carved steps to look up at Dáin, who had stayed on the balcony and was looking down upon the Entrance Hall with a twinkle in his eyes. “I cannot begin to thank-”

“Will you run already? They’ll probably be halfway through Mirkwood by the time you get in your saddle!”

Dáin chuckled when Thorin nodded, a grateful smile etched on his lips, before the King pushed onwards through a small gathering of blacksmiths who were just standing there, gaping. They weren’t used to see the King Under the Mountain addressed in such an authoritative way, and were probably baffled by Thorin’s lack of retaliation. But the son of Thráin was far too busy dodging workers to notice the stares.

“Run, cousin,” Dáin whispered to himself, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s racing form. “Run to where you belong. And may Mahal’s Hammer always clear a path between you and your happiness. Durin knows you deserve it.”

 

* * *

 

 

One hour into their journey, Bilbo was reminded why travelling with dwarves could prove to be a very strenuous business. Dwalin and Fili’s light bicker about which road they should take to reach Mirkwood had escalated into a full-fledged shouting match, with Kili joining in at some point to back his brother up. The hobbit suspected that, without Thorin to silence the lot of them with the aid of a single death glare, the fights were going to be a recurring matter.

Oh, he couldn’t believe he was missing Thorin already.

“Uncle said to stick to the path, so stick to the path we will!” Fili growled while his brother furiously nodded from behind him. Apparently, the blond-haired youth was taking his role as leader very seriously, and he was planning to make good on his promise to Thorin to be careful.

“This road leads to Dale, useless detour if ye ask me,” Dwalin countered. “We can cut through that vale ahead. That’ll shorten the trip and keep us far from that blasted city of Men.”

“You don’t like Lord Bard, we get it, but it would probably take just as long to climb up and down those hills as walking a few miles more on the road.”

“Plus, there’ll probably be free ale in good ol’ Dale,” Bofur piped in. “That’s enough of a reason, if you ask me.”

“Nobody’s askin’ you.”

And the fight heated up a notch, pulling yet another sigh from Bilbo. This would not do. Wolves needed a leader to steer the pack. Lions needed an alpha to protect the family. And Dwarves needed a King to yell louder than them and shut everyone up. In that field, Fili was still a pup, yipping tentatively with the restrain of a young thing where Dwalin barked at the top of his lungs. Of course, had Thorin been there, his roar would cover even the tattooed dwarf’s rumbling.

Bilbo’s mind was left to wander, the constant bickering pushed to the background of his thoughts and the reins in his hand slipping a bit down Snowball’s neck. The sun was a blessing on his toes and his face; so delightful in fact that he considered taking off his green waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves to enjoy the warmth on his forearms.

He had always preferred bright summers to the cold, unforgiving days of winter. When it had snowed in Lake-town, Bilbo had almost swallowed his pride and asked the dwarves for a spare pair of boots, so frightened that he was at the thought of losing his toes to frostbite. It almost never snowed in the Shire, and when it did, nobody set foot outside until all the dreadful white stuff had turned into muddy puddles. Lucky were the vendors of the following market then, where a crowd of half-starved hobbits usually poured in to restock at least two of their pantries.

No, Bilbo thought, summer was best. Maybe they would arrive in Hobbiton in time for apple and pear picking. Farmer Maggot always had the sweetest, juiciest pears in the Shire, but he guarded his trees as fiercely as he would his young daughters – if he had any, that is. While young lads and lasses waited for the cover of night for a taste, Bilbo had long since moved past that stage and preferred to bargain with the farmer. Who knew such a cranky hobbit as Farmer Maggot fancied story books so much? Bilbo could very well be the only one.

The former burglar let himself be lulled into a peaceful haze by fond memories of the Shire and the calm thuds of pony hooves hitting the earth. Their mounts had had fresh horseshoes put on the previous day for the long journey. Bilbo had been curious enough to take a peek and had practically howled when that big burly blacksmith had hammered the first huge nail into Snowball’s hoof. The hobbit had run, thinking his pony to be in grave danger, only to have Bofur grab him by the collar and spare him the embarrassment.

It seemed that nailing horseshoes was common practice, that it didn’t hurt ponies at all and would protect their hooves from wear. Bilbo had seen his fair share of ponies in the Shire, but the lush grass and soft dirt hardly called for such a barbaric thing. Hobbits, of course, were of ‘gentler folk’, as Bofur had said to the astonished blacksmith as a lame excuse.

Something was off, though. Bilbo’s nose scrunched up as he strained his ears. Through the thuds and the clatter of weapons accompanying the moving ponies, another kind of noise was beginning to take form. Very soft and discreet at first, it steadily grew into something fiercer, reminding Bilbo of drums or rumbling thunder.

Or a galloping horse.

“Wait up!” came the roar from behind.

The entire party was stunned into silence and immediately halted their ponies. Quickly, in a flurry of braids and clinking gear, dwarves and hobbit turned around in their saddles to catch sight of the newcomer.

A strangled gasp tumbled out of Bilbo’s mouth as he recognized the dwarf riding down the road, his dark strands whipping around in the wind as he pushed his pony faster and faster. When he saw the company looking at him, Thorin pulled on his reins and gradually slowed his mount down to a pace, stopping only when he was next to Snowball’s white rump.

Both rider and pony were out of breath, but at least Thorin didn’t have a thick trail of spit running down his neck. The King tangled a grateful hand into his mount’s black mane – Jango, the exhausted beast’s name was, if Bilbo remembered correctly – and took a second to stand straight and dignified in his saddle in spite of his dishevelled hair and Orcrist on the verge of falling off his back.

“I’m coming with you,” he managed once his panting had calmed down somewhat.

Had his feet not be secured on either side on Snowball’s flanks, Bilbo would have fallen out of his saddle. Judging by the amount of gasps and surprised grunts erupting from the front of the line, his astonishment was shared.

“B-but,” the hobbit stammered, “Erebor…”

“Is in good hands,” Thorin assured, “and will still be standing when I come back.”

“I don’t mean no offense, laddie,” Dwalin growled, one large hand resting on one equally large hip, “but have ye lost yer blasted mind?”

Thorin only smiled at the comment, unbothered by his old friend’s bite. “No, Dwalin, I merely changed it.” A swell of affection brushed against Bilbo when the pair of warm blue eyes settled on him, more relaxed and open than he had seen them in days. “That is, if you will have me.”

“Don’t be silly!” Bilbo snapped, his voice little more than a strong squeak. “I-I mean, you know, it’s only up to you… with your duties, and everything…”

“I talked to the King, he doesn’t mind me coming along,” Thorin chuckled, amused by the small outburst. “So long as I keep in touch.”

“Whatever do you m- Oh!” Bilbo recoiled slightly when two great black shapes bore down on Thorin; his heart skipped a beat before he recognized the ravens. They were larger than most birds he had seen in the Entrance Hall, and barely fit on Thorin’s broad shoulders at all.

“Here are Troäc and Caräk, sons of Roäc. They volunteered to accompany us and be my ears and eyes while I am away from Erebor.” As if on cue, both ravens bowed low, their beaks almost touching Jango’s mane in the process, and took off from their narrow perch to fly ahead of the group.

“Lovely,” Bilbo commented. “I hope they are polite enough not to use our heads as targets when they relieve themselves.” His eyes darted back to his dwarf, who had since regained some level of composure, and frowned. “You only have a single bag, and it doesn’t look very big. What’s in there?”

“Now who is the mother hen?”

“Uncle!” Kili called from the front of the group. “Fili says he allows you to come, but you don’t get to lead! We would like to get to the Shire before the next century.”

Thorin pretended to scowl, but he was far too amused for it. “Very well, then, send your leader my thanks and tell him I will be content to stay at the back.” He paused for a fond look in Bilbo’s direction. “And remind him that his mother is not yet here to protect him, should I wish to harm his health.”

Snickers and chuckles blossomed in the small group before they nudged their ponies onwards again. Thorin’s Jango fell into step next to Snowball, their flanks so close that their riders’ legs were almost brushing. Warmth flooded Bilbo’s cheeks when a large dwarven hand reached out to clasp his knee. He fought the urge to giggle at the joy bubbling deep in his chest; that was not what respectable hobbits did.

Rambling and babbling, on the other hand…

“D-don’t think you are getting out of this, Thorin Oakenshield,” he stuttered. “What is in your bag?”

“Everything I need for this trip,” the King replied casually. “Scrolls, quills, ink, a whetstone or two…”

“What about a bedroll? A blanket?”

Innocent blue eyes peered at him over one fur-lined shoulder. “I figured since you took those, we might share…”

“Sneaky dwarf.” Bilbo shook his head. Now he knew who Fili and Kili were getting their puppy eyes skills from. “If you had made up your mind sooner, you would have had time to prepare. But no, as per usual, you just rush into things. When _I_ rush into things, I only forget to bring a handkerchief, but you? I bet you didn’t even bring a proper change of clothes.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” A pause, and Bilbo braced himself for the next words. “I think I saw a pair of socks in the bag when I picked it up, though whether they are clean or not, I’m not certain.”

“Oh, dear.”  


	6. Through Greenwood

“Oh, Bilbo, what about this one?”

“Really, Kili? I thought you dwarves were shown this one before you even learned to walk.” Bilbo looking down from the night skies at his cauldron, making sure his stew wouldn’t burn and that he had a few minutes available to indulge the young dwarf. Satisfied, he peered upwards once more, finger pointing at a constellation in particular. “Those seven stars are thought to be Durin’s Crown. See the brightest one in the middle? Well, dwarven astronomy has it that it represents Durin, surrounded by the six other Fathers of Dwarves. But its relevance is a bit… controversial, so to speak.”

Kili’s face scrunched up in thought. “What do you mean?”

“For many, Durin’s Crown is nothing more than a vision, a myth,” Fili said quietly from where he sat against a log, chipping away at a small wooden block with a knife. “It is said that one day, Durin the Deathless travelled to Dimrill Dale and looked into the Mirrormere, or Kheled-zâram as he later called it. Despite the fact that it was day, he saw a crown of stars above his reflection in the lake. He took it as a good omen and founded Khazad-dûm, or Moria, deep inside the mountain beneath the Mirrormere. Durin’s Stone was carved to commemorate the occurrence, but to this day historians are unsure whether the constellation depicted on the Stone really exists, or was just a vision. Those seven stars up there are the closest Dwarves have found that match the description, and there are still some who would deem it unsatisfactory.”

Complete silence followed the tirade, and Fili looked up from his carving to see every single pair of eyes turned to him. The heir to the Throne of Erebor shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “What? Everybody knows that.”

“When have you started to talk like a book?” Kili asked when he realized he was gaping.

Fili threw him a dark glare. “I do not. It might come as a surprise, but I listen to Uncle Thorin’s stories even when there’s no mention of mighty beasts or great battles.”

“That is a nice thing to hear, Fili,” Thorin nodded approvingly from his position near the fire, his eyes returning to the scroll he was balancing on one crossed leg. “It would do you good to take a leaf out of your brother’s book, Kili.”

“Story of my life,” the young archer groaned, but he did patter over to where Fili was sitting and settled down next to his sibling to observe the carving, his chin nestled on his big brother’s shoulder.

Bilbo chuckled and turned back to his simmering deer stew. So far, this journey felt like a one of the camping holidays he had had when he was younger. Thorin and Dwalin were sitting side by side, adding the strange mixture of quill scratching paper and stone hitting metal to the merry cracking of their fire. Sprawled out in the grass, Bofur was trying to play dice with Gloin; _trying_ being the key word, since the red-bearded dwarf was very busy debating whose wife was prettiest with Bombur. Which was always a delicate matter prone to bring forth heated arguments.

Not to mention the terrible, embarrassing images that would be stuck in Bilbo’s mind for a while due to certain comments. One’s prowess in the bedroom shouldn’t be discussed so openly where hobbit ears could hear them.

But thankfully, the evening’s war focused on less private and more acceptable matters. Well, for dwarves anyway.

“My Sáli could drink you right through the ground, fat belly an’ all,” Gloin growled, his clamped jaws pulling at his wound and making it redder than normal. The missing chunk of his beard had yet to regrow and cover the scarred flesh, but Bilbo doubted it ever would. “Always beaten me at it, she has, and you’d be no different.”

“It’s not as if you’re much of a challenge,” the round dwarf scoffed, wrapping up the rest of their meat to be cooked later. “Ye’ve always been a lightweight, Gloin.”

“Like you’d know somethin’ about being a lightweight…”

“Enough with the fat jokes already!” Bofur fumed, hitting the ground with a closed fist but only emitting a soft sound muffled by the thick grass. “Throw the damn dice, for once I’m winnin’!”

“Bofur, what did I say about cursing and dinner?” Bilbo scolded, stirring the pot to avoid getting meat and beans stuck to the bottom.

“It’s either one or the other?”

“Exactly. Now could you please be a dear and bring me the bowls? I think it’s almost ready.”

The toy maker finally gave up on his game of dice with a mournful grunt, but got to his feet and went off to rummage through one of their packs. Bilbo added some sage as seasoning and gave the stew a couple more stirs, all the while humming to himself. He didn’t mind cooking for the group, in spite of Bombur’s protests; Hobbits enjoyed simple pleasures, and nothing pleased him more than the swell of pride he felt anytime someone complimented him on his cooking skills.

Which didn’t occur often, since dwarves tended to wolf down anything he gave them in under a minute without even tasting it, but he had come to take that very habit as a praise. A very unusual, dwarven praise.

Bilbo had other motives for preparing dinner that night. He had never spoken of it to anyone, not even Thorin, but cooking for one another was an essential part of courting in the Shire. Back in Erebor, he had scarcely had any time for a chat with Thorin, let alone a whole meal alone with him. In Bag End and with a full pantry, Bilbo would have whipped up a feast fit for Thorin’s standing – meat pies, roast tomatoes coated in cheese dancing around a stuffed turkey, he could almost see it on the dinner table. But they were on the road, and the hobbit would have to make do.

Bilbo had waited until he had gathered all the herbs he needed, stashing them in his pocket to dry as they headed west. On the third day, when they stopped for lunch, the hobbit had scurried over to a patch of trees and almost cried out when he had found the small, white mushrooms that would bring the final touch to Belladonna Took’s ‘Special Sunday Stew’. His mother probably had never thought that he would try to prepare her most prized dish out there in the wilderness for a bunch of dwarves, but for some reason, he had a feeling it would do her proud.

Fresh meat, preferably beef, had been the last ingredient on the list. On this side of Middle-Earth, villages were a rare commodity, and markets even more so. The solution to Bilbo’s problem had showed its snout sometime in the early evening, when they had settled down for the night. The hobbit had walked over to a few bushes, his bladder screaming at him all the way, and he was halfway through unlacing his trousers when the deer sprang forth. Bilbo had fallen on his already abused behind with a shriek, scared out of his skin and almost wetting his pants when the creature took a graceful leap over him. Within seconds, Kili’s arrow flew and struck home deep into the deer’s neck.

Bilbo had only spent a handful of seconds grieving for the beautiful animal, glad as he had been to put his dinner plans into actions at long last. But then he had looked down and noticed that he was sprawled out with his pants down to his knees, and had scampered off into the bushes with a small squeak while the rest of the company roared out their laughter. It had taken a few minutes for Thorin to come and retrieve Bilbo from his hiding spot, dragging the hobbit back to camp, his dark eyes daring anyone to laugh again. Thankfully, dwarves were not so dense that they couldn’t take the hint, and nobody did more than smirk.

Still, if Fili made another comment about the moon being full that night, Bilbo would not be above throwing his ladle right into the prince’s mischievous face.

The hobbit thanked Bofur when eight bowls were laid out on the ground next to the pot, and couldn’t suppress a smug grin when the dwarf smelled the steam swirling in the evening air with a dreamy look on his cheerful features. “Yer spoilin’ us, Bilbo, that’s what yer doing.”

“Nonsense. Just wait until I get a hold of my kitchen in Bag End again, there’s going to be some serious spoiling then.” With the toy-maker’s help, Bilbo filled each bowl with a generous serving of stew, making sure that everyone had the same amount of meat, beans and potatoes. “Dinner’s ready!”

If there was any kind of spell in this world to turn Dwarves into half-starved wolves, those would probably be the magic words. Whetstones and dice disappeared as Bilbo’s companions scrambled to sit quietly around the cauldron, hands held out as Bofur passed over smoking hot bowls and spoons. Immediately, the air was filled with the clatter of wood on wood and hums of delight as the party tucked in. When Bofur settled down with his own serving, Bilbo was surprised to see there were still two bowls to be passed on, and a quick glance over his steaming pot told him that Thorin hadn’t budged from his spot on the other side of camp.

With a shake of his head, the hobbit swooped down to snatch the two bowls up. “There is still some stew left, I guess I’m still used to cooking for fourteen, so help yourselves,” Bilbo chirped, escaping the direct vicinity of his cauldron when challenging glares were exchanged betwixt the dwarves. He didn’t want to be within reach when the first bowls were polished off.

Carefully balancing the food, Bilbo crossed the camp and neared Thorin. The King was staring at the scroll laid out on his knees as though he wanted to burn holes right through the paper. Slowly, absentmindedly, he was brushing the feathered end of his white quill over his lips and down his beard as he mulled over one thing or another. From time to time, the dwarf would steal a glance at the two ravens that were cackling on an overturned log and picking at the bowl of raw deer chunks they had been given as supper. Once in a while, both birds would pick the same bit of meat and battle for it fiercely, all indignant screeches and ruffled feathers, until their sharp beaks tore the piece in two.

“I guess all siblings are the same, even Ravens,” Bilbo chuckled as he came to a stop next to Thorin. “But you would know more about this than I do, I suppose.”

“I never quarrelled much with my brother and sister,” the dwarf supplied, eyes falling back on his piece of parchment. “The two of them fought often enough for three. I was too busy separating them most of the time.”

“A great big brother, you are.” Bilbo sat down with caution, crossing his bare legs on the soft grass before he handed one bowl over. “Here. Not as good as it would have been with a proper kitchen, but I think it’s acceptable.”

“Let me finish this, I won’t be long.”

“Your scroll will still be there in a few minutes, but your dinner will be cold.” With a resigned sigh, Thorin rolled up his work and set it down on the ground next to him. Bilbo frowned when he noticed the ink staining the dwarf’s fingers. Trust that lump to make a mess of himself right before dinner. The hobbit repressed his urge to tut and fetch his handkerchief to clean the dwarven fingers, lest he be called a fussing mother hen once more, and just waited until Thorin took the bowl. “What is so important about it, anyway?”

Thorin leaned back against a moss-covered boulder and stretched his legs with a muffled groan before he answered. “It is just a report about the deepest mine shafts in Erebor. They have yet to be cleared of all rumble and though the mother gold lodes are now accessible, it might be dangerous to dig further in to uncover lesser veins. It smells delicious,” he added after an appreciative whiff at his steaming bowl.

For a second, Bilbo’s ego smirked like a proud cat after a successful hunt. But his curiosity was aroused, and while it was common knowledge that curiosity was an infamous cat killer, it was relatively harmless for hobbits. “Why would it be dangerous?”

“The roof of the shafts have been weakened and most, if not all of them, are extremely unstable. As of now, it would take months to properly repair the damage and make it safe for miners again. I was just wondering whether or not I should send word to seal the whole gallery off and be done with it.”

Bilbo was left to blink quite stupidly. Sealing off gold veins? Now, he didn’t have any serious experience in the culture of dwarves, other than they were thick-headed and disliked green food, but that didn’t sound like a very dwarven thing to do. “Now why would you do that?” he asked, scooting over to where he could see Thorin’s face without having to twist his neck at an odd angle.

“The mother lodes alone will be enough to provide enough gold to last centuries. I am reluctant to risk lives of others in those unsafe tunnels just to add a few coins to the pile. I will not make the same mistake my grandfather did and let greed dictate my every decision.” Rubbing at one eye with the heel of his right hand, Thorin sighed. “I’ll think about it tonight and send word first thing in the morning.”

“Good. Ravens can’t see anything at night, anyway.”

“Indeed.”

Thorin blew softly on his first spoonful of stew and when he deemed it cool enough, ate it. Luckily, he wasn’t looking at Bilbo, who was practically bouncing on his bum as he waited for his intended’s reaction and leaning in in what probably looked like a creepy vulture’s posture. A tween in the throes of puppy love he was, but he would find some time to be embarrassed about it later.

Thorin’s deep hum of contentment almost pulled a giggle from the Baggins inside Bilbo. “You’ve outdone yourself. I never thought deer could taste so good.”

“Oh, you know, it’s just a few herbs and stuff, nothing much,” Bilbo shrugged, but there was no fighting the blush that invaded his cheeks. After everything they had been through, feeling so pleased over a bowl of stew sounded preposterous, and yet the hobbit left like a little boy who had just given a flower to his sweetheart and got rewarded with a kiss on his chubby cheek.

Satisfied that Thorin liked the food, Bilbo tucked in before his dinner went cold. He had only taken a few bites – good gracious, it was delicious, his mother would be so proud! – when some sort of wet noise reached his ears and tore his attention away from his meal. The sight that met his eyes took a few moments to process.

King Thorin had already finished his stew and, in all of his dignity and majesty, was giving his empty bowl an unhurried but thorough lick to collect every single drop of juice. Lying forgotten by the dwarf’s feet, his wooden spoon was clean as the day it was made. Bilbo was blushing again, he knew, and not only because he was deeply flattered by his intended’s reaction. The idea of Thorin’s tongue delivering such controlled, strong sweeps did funny things to his stomach, and the hobbit soon found himself squirming uncomfortably, wondering when the night had warmed up so much that he felt a bit on the sweaty side.

Thorin soon noticed he was stared at and gave a sheepish half-smile when he mistook Bilbo’s frown for a disapproving look. “Sorry. It’s just… you are very talented.” The dwarf put his bowl down, wiping a few stray drops from his beard with the back of his head after he straightened himself. “Would you happen to have, mh, any left?”

The tentative tone, making Thorin sound as if he was unsure whether he should be shamed by his actions or consider them a mere proof of his appreciation of Bilbo’s culinary skills, and dwarven fingers nervously pulling at random blades of grass did the hobbit in and he laughed. “When I left there was a handsome share left, but now I’m not sure. You might have to fight your way through six hungry dwarves to find out.”

“Worth the risk. And I need the exercise anyway.” Thorin collected his bowl and spoon so hurriedly that a fond smile stretched Bilbo’s lips. The hobbit turned his attention back to his own dinner and almost choked on a chunk of meat when a heavy kiss was dropped on his shaggy hair. His head whirled, but Thorin was striding away as if nothing was amiss.

Laughing quietly to himself, Bilbo dug into his bowl with a renewed appetite. All reserved and stern as he might look, Thorin was a far cry from the brooding dwarf who had come to the Shire the previous year. While he was not openly wearing his emotions on his features at all times, and was more inclined to glare than to laugh, Thorin’s heart and soul were free of the dark thoughts and snarling demons that had plagued them for decades. Sometimes, Bilbo wondered if the dwarf just needed time to adjust to this new, brightest life and was mentally unable to be completely happy yet. Getting the King to crawl out his shell would be a long, hard, maybe impossible process at times, and so it was a good thing that Bilbo was a very patient hobbit.

If small steps were what it took, alright then. In the end, it would be worth it.

With those considerations warming his heart, Bilbo calmly picked up his spoon to resume eating. When a yelp made him turn his head, and he took in the sight of Kili running off with the still hot cauldron in his hands and his mutinous uncle hot on his heels, the hobbit only chuckled and settled comfortably against the boulder to enjoy the show.

It had been a long while since the last time people fought over Belladonna’s Special Sunday Stew, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“For the last time,” Thorin growled, squeezing his reins a little tighter, “we are not going through that accursed forest again.”

“We’ll waste days riding around it!” Kili countered, spurring his pony on every time she stopped to nip at the grass. “And it’s not that dangerous anymore. Fili showed me the reports, the forest is almost back to normal, thanks to the elv-”

“I will say it again, since it appears you have temporary brain damage. We are _not_ travelling through that wretched forest again, and that’s final.”

Kili grunted and began to sulk, reminding Bilbo of a young hobbit being denied a slice of cake. In spite of the childish behavior, his heart went out to the pouting young dwarf. He had seen the way Kili looked at that red-haired Captain, and could understand how the archer thought going through Mirkwood – Greenwood, Bilbo berated himself, _Greenwood_. Holding onto the past, especially when it was unpleasant, never helped moving on – would give him a chance to see the elf again.

It didn’t take a wizard to understand how Thorin felt about the whole matter of his nephew mooning over an elf.

Kili brooded for some time, picking at knots and bits of twigs in his pony’s mane, before his resentful pout turned into a snake’s smirk, if such a thing was heard of the cold-blooded creatures. The closest description Bilbo had in mind was the corner of Smaug’s terrific mouth twitching up to reveal sharp teeth, and that was just before the giant drake had tried to gobble him up. Not really a fond memory.

Before Bilbo could warn Thorin, however, Kili’s voice was heard again, and the silky undertone only cemented the hobbit’s conviction that some kind of mischief was afoot. “Say, Uncle. You are still leaving Fili in charge of this journey, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“So… he’s the one making the decisions, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I don’t see what you… Kili. No.”

But Thorin’s nephew was already spurring his mount on to get to the front of the group. “Brother! Wait up! There’s something I want to tell you!”

Thorin grunted but didn’t go after Kili, choosing instead to rub the crease between his eyes with one palm. “It will be a miracle if the next decade sees me with anything other than grey hair on my head,” he muttered.

“Well, hopefully they’ll match your crown, that’ll make for quite a fetching sight,” Bilbo chuckled. When Thorin didn’t smile, the hobbit reached out to pat the King’s broad shoulder. “He is young, and brash, but he is right. Greenwood is not as dangerous as it was when we first went through it. I heard all the webs were gone and their makers along with them, as well as most of the dark spells that plagued the whole place.”

“It is not black magic or spiders that make me wary of this forest.”

Bilbo’s smile dropped. Without making the conscious decision to do so, his hand slid up Thorin’s shoulder to grasp a few strands of raven hair and caress them. The dwarf was never going to forget what had happened last time they had dared enter the Woodland Realm. Spiders, hunger, darkness? Time could forego all these memories; even Bilbo had come to make peace and didn’t view Greenwood as a nasty expanse of ill-natured vegetation which top priority was finding newer, crueller ways to kill passers-by each day. But no amount of time could mend the cuts in Thorin’s pride after the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the Elvenking, and even though Thranduil had redeemed himself during and after the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo understood Thorin’s efforts to avoid an encounter with the Sindar.

“This time we have ponies and provisions,” the hobbit said soothingly, reaching out as much as he could without falling off of Snowball to tangle his fingers in the silky hair. It hadn’t grown into its former length yet, but it was a close thing. “If we stay on the path and only stop for a bit of sleep, we’ll reach the other side before any elf takes notice of our presence. And even if they do, well, Erebor is on good terms with the Woodland Realm, right? This time around we are not trespassers, we are doing nothing wrong.”

“And last time, we were?”

“Well, you did shout that you were going to drown Thranduil in excrements, or something like that. Now I’m not a specialist when it comes to elven etiquette, but I don’t think that’s something you can tell the king and expect him to invite you over for tea.”

Bilbo felt a pinch of relief when a small smile timidly crept up on Thorin’s face. Granted, the King was probably just looking back fondly at how the Khuzdul curse had echoed in the halls of the elven palace, but it was a smile and that meant victory.

“It is just as well. I would have never accepted to have tea with him,” Thorin grunted, his shoulder slightly less slumped that they had been earlier.

“Oh, I don’t think he would have ever suggested it. Elves must drink from small, delicate cups as white and precious as the stars they worship. Your big paws would make quick work of the fragile things.” Bilbo chuckled at the mental image of Thorin having tea in the grass within a circle of elves, holding a very breakable cup of tea between his thumb and forefinger in an effort to avoid crushing the frail ceramic. “I’m afraid your hands were made to hold a tankard of ale rather than those cups.”

“That tree-shagger wouldn’t be above sacrificing a cup or two for the sake of poisoning me.”

“For the love of everything that grows, Thorin! Could you stop using that awful name?” Bilbo seethed, untangling his fingers to give the dwarf’s ear a swat before he pulled his hand back to his reins. “Thranduil may not be your friend, but he is your ally. Whether you like it or not, without his people you might very well not have any breath left in you to curse his name!”

Wordlessly, Bofur and Gloin nudged their ponies to put a bit of distance between them and the arguing pair. Whatever fight would blow out, they weren’t keen on being caught in the middle of it.

The growl that escaped Thorin would have meant pain and death to whoever was on its receiving end, but Bilbo was not impressed. He had seen true rage and hate in those blue eyes before, burning with such an intensity that he was certain nothing would quite compare to it.

“What, then? You would have me forget what he did to my people? To the company? What he forced upon me?” the dwarf hissed through gritted teeth.

“Of course not. And if you wish to spend your whole life avoiding him, that’s fine as well. But try not to act as if he is out to kill you and let it cloud your thoughts. Riding around the forest is nothing short of foolish, and you know it.” Bilbo interrupted his speech to steer Snowball carefully around a hole in the path. A badger’s work, certainly. “The Elf Path is the quickest and safest way to the Misty Mountains. We would lose days going around it north, and weeks should we travel south. Remember what Gandalf said at the Forest Gate?”

Thorin growled but fell silent. He knew he couldn’t measure up to Bilbo when it came to logic and good sense, that much he would admit – only to himself, never others, of course – but the hobbit was surprised by the quick surrender. He hadn’t expected the King to see reason at least until the next day.

And at Kili’s whoop of triumph, Thorin only emitted the smallest of groans. “Fine,” he snapped dourly when it was made clear that Fili had agreed to his brother’s request. “But if we are to cross this accursed forest, you,” and at this, he jabbed a thick finger in Bilbo’s direction, “are not to step further than ten feet away from me. I won’t have you swept away by some pointy-eared root-eater, or snacked on by whatever still lives in there.”

“I’m tempted to refuse, on account that I can take care of myself just fine, but fair enough.”

Satisfied for the time being, Thorin nodded and stayed quiet for the remainder of the day. It was true, after all; the forest was immense, and there was little to no chance for the elves to know of their presence unless they drew attention to them on purpose – likely by setting trees on fire or allowing Kili to sing.

Both of which were not going to happen, if Bilbo had any say in it.

 

* * *

 

 

They couldn’t have been into Greenwood for one full hour before Bilbo’s beliefs were torn.

The forest looked remarkably healthier than the last time he had been in it. No longer depressing shades of grey splotched with black, the tree were tinged with green and most of them had flowers or even fruits to show for their improvement. Timid flowers were springing from the wet earth, their petals pale and weak but still there for the world to look at. Though still shielding them from most sunrays, enough light filtered through the thick branches to give their surroundings a peaceful and overall quite pleasant undertone.

The raven brothers were content to ride on a broad shoulder or a pony’s hindquarters. Their wingspan was so great and the vegetation so dense that flying around had soon become a tedious business, and both Troäc and Caräk had given up on it completely after some time. Thorin’s shoulders were their favorite perch, but Troäc – or was it Caräk? They were nearly identical – often took up residence on Bilbo’s pack and gave the hobbit a fright when he pecked at his green waistcoat.

The hobbit was in the middle of shooing the feathered nuisance away yet again – he suspected the bird was enjoying seeing him jump – when _they_ made themselves known.

They were looking down at the company from low branches, crouching and peering between leaves at the seven dwarves plus one hobbit travelling through the forest. There were three of them, or at least they were the only three elves that Bilbo could see. If more was hiding in the bushes or the trees, he didn’t know, but he knew enough about them to think it highly unlikely.

As soon as they were spotted, the three elves hopped down gracefully from the branches and landed almost soundlessly on the road in front of Fili’s pony, almost giving the poor beast a heart attack.

One particular elven face brought a groan out of Bilbo when he came across it. This was not going to end well.

“Greetings,” Legolas said, his pristine features betraying no emotion as his eyes racked over the small party. When they settled on Thorin, however, Bilbo was under the impression that the elf’s lips twitched and formed a thin line. Maybe because the dark-haired dwarf was trying to tear him to shreds with a glare. “Dwarves from Erebor and Bilbo Baggins are a welcome sight in Greenwood, but we were not made aware of your presence here until one hour ago. Nor do we know your purpose in these lands. Is there some matter you wish to discuss with the Elvenking?”

Thorin mumbled something under his breath that Bilbo knew would be nothing short of rude, and the hobbit wondered if the legends about Elves’ exceedingly good hearing were true. If Legolas heard the offensive words, he never let it show, but his two companions weren’t so good at shielding their emotions. Both dark-haired and dressed in green garments, they were probably brother and sister, for the frowns marring their faces were identical as they looked over at Thorin. Twins even, Bilbo thought, he knew they were not that uncommon amongst Elves.

“We are just passing through,” Fili answered politely. “We need to travel across Greenwood to reach the Misty Mountains.”

Legolas’ grey-blue eyes widened slightly, then narrowed suspiciously. Bilbo knew Thranduil’s son was burning to question their motives for such a trip; the newly-forged alliance between his people and the dwarves of Erebor, in spite of many contracts depicting its terms and agreements, was not yet firmly established in the minds of many and general wariness was not uncommon whenever Elves and Dwarves crossed paths in both kingdoms. But both Firstborn and Adopted Children tried their best to at least stay civil, and if Bilbo was a gambling sort of hobbit, he would bet that those efforts were what kept Legolas from outwardly demanding why they were making for the Misty Mountains.

“We haven’t received word of goblins being particularly active these days,” the fair elf drawled carefully, his sharp eyes travelling from one dwarf to the next, until they rested on Thorin and he quickly adverted them. “Is there some kind of uprising we happen to be unaware of?”

“No, no uprising. We just need to go there, is all.” Fili probably didn’t trust the elves enough to disclose their motives, or even their real destination. From the corner of his eye, Bilbo saw Thorin’s little nod of approval. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll be on our way.”

The golden-haired heir didn’t try to nudge his pony forward and bypass the three elves, as a more hot-headed dwarf such as his uncle would have done, and patiently waited for his interlocutors’ leave.

Legolas nodded. “Very well. Travel safely.” He turned around and spoke a few words of Sindarin to his companions, who nodded and came to stand on either side of Fili’s pony.

Confused grunts echoed between the trees, but the elves didn’t even bat an elegant eyelash.

“What is the meaning of this?” Thorin finally growled, unable to keep quiet any longer and glancing every now and then at his nephew to make sure the two dark-haired beings weren’t attempting anything funny.

“Hatholnin and Manwen will accompany you through Greenwood. They will guide you and see you safely to the Forest Gate.” Legolas’ tone didn’t sound like arguing was an option.

But Thorin took his chance anyway. “Are those paths not safe enough? Your report last week indicated that you have successfully destroyed the spider nests.”

“True, we did. But it would still be unwise for a group of dwarves to wander alone in a forest that was cursed not so long ago. Especially with their King. I do not wish for you to lose your way and starve.”

“We do not need your help,” Thorin said gruffly.

“Nor do we give it out of the goodness of our heart,” the elf that ought to be Hatholnin snorted. “The Elvenking ordered us to follow Dwarves in Greenwood to ensure no harm comes to the trees or the animals. The forest is recovering, and your kind has the unpleasant tendency to wreck-”

“Hatholnin!” The name was followed by one single harsh elvish word from Legolas and had the annoyed elf falling silent. Long tendrils of dark hair curtained his face but did little to hide his frustrated grimace. Some elves were just more reluctant than others to accept Dwarves as neighbors and allies, Bilbo guessed.

Legolas switched back to Westron to address the fellowship. “Apologies for this. I wish you a safe journey and luck in your endeavors.”

The fair-haired elf turned on his heels with one last nod, but had only taken a few steps before he stilled. Thranduil’s son shifted his weigh from one leg to the other, staring down at an overgrown daisy patch for a few moments while the party set off once more with Fili bracketed between two sulking elves. When at last Bilbo and Thorin rode past him, Legolas looked up at the dwarven King with something akin to regret in his vibrant eyes.

“Your hair,” he breathed, and for a while Bilbo thought he had only dreamt it, “it suits you better this way.”

And without warning, the Prince of the Woodland Realm disappeared amongst the trees, leaving Thorin to blink after him atop his pony’s back.

Bilbo allowed a small, warm smile to brush his lips. “Well, dear, I think an elf just apologized to you. How does it feel?”

The hobbit laughed when the only answer he got was a loud grunt and Thorin spurred his mount forward to catch up with the rest of their group, looking for all the world as if he had just gotten a hedgehog thrown to his face rather than an apology. And being very uncomfortable about it.

 

* * *

 

 

They were two or three days away from the Forest Gate when the skies opened to unleash entire rivers upon their unsuspecting heads.

Until then, their journey across the forest had been quite uneventful. They rode all day, nibbling on a bit of dried meat every now and then to avoid stopping for lunch. At night they would stop and rest for a few hours until the sun was high enough to light their way, and be off once more. This time around, the path was not concealed or confusing, and stretched out before their eyes so plainly that even a blind dwarf could find his way out of Greenwood.

Hours went by steadily, and with so little distraction that Bilbo felt something he hadn’t experienced in a while: boredom. The trees that lined up the path were all very similar, and even the fat, vibrant flowers around their roots failed to catch Bilbo’s attention after a while. No sound except the singing of birds filled the air; not even Thorin would hold a conversation that lasted more than five minutes with his burglar, annoyed as he was by the elves’ ever present eyes and ears.

Hatholnin and Manwen weren’t following the company up close; in fact, most of the time, the two elves couldn’t be sighted at all and would leave no hint as to their presence for hours. But Bilbo knew better than to think that they were gone; Kili had made that mistake the day following their encounter. The young archer had tried to shoot a deer for the evening meal, only to have his arrow swung to the side and snapped in two by a gleaming elven sword. With a brisk reminder that animals were to be left alone, their elven escort had disappeared as swiftly as it had come out of nowhere.

Walking from tree to tree, hiding in the bushes… they could be anywhere. At night, Bilbo could hear the two of them whispering while everybody slept, but in broad daylight he couldn’t spot them and use their graceful movements as a distraction from the long, dreary walk through Greenwood.

As strongly as he wished for something to happen and sweep him away from the realm of boredom, Bilbo wasn’t sure cold, hard rain was any improvement.

“Blast it,” Bofur mourned as he held his pipe up. “And I’ve just had it lit, too.”

“We will soon have more than pipes to worry about,” Thorin said as he peered up at the sky between thick branches. “We’ll be drenched to the bone within minutes, and our supplies won’t fare better. We must find shelter for the night.”

“Uncle, look! A cave!”

Kili’s eyes were sharper than ever; indeed, at the foot of what looked like a little hill, rock showed beneath grass and opened in a dark passage. From where they stood, there was no telling if the small cave was deep enough to accommodate them all, but it was worth a try.

The dwarves urged their ponies off of the path and made a bee line for the mouth of the cavern. Bilbo noted with instant relief that there would be enough space to fit all of them – elves included – inside, but some worry crept into his heart when his eyes plunged into the depths of the cave. He remembered Thorin’s words, back when they were in the Misty Mountains, about shelters such as these being seldom unoccupied. The hobbit’s hand instinctively flew to his pocket to stroke his magic ring absently.

His companions, however, had no such preoccupations. They had dismounted and unloaded their supplies from their ponies’ backs quicker than it usually took Bombur to whip up an apple pie. Saddles and packs were being piled up on one side of the cave when Bilbo finally set foot on the ground and tied Snowball to a nearby tree.

“I’ll take care of this, go and join the others,” Thorin grunted as Bilbo began to undo the ties holding his pack in place.

The dwarf practically ripped both bag and saddle off of Snowball before Bilbo could protest, and the two of them reached the cave together. And just in time, too, for seconds later the fat droplets of water turned into thick wet ropes pouring down from the heavens.

Thorin deposited Bilbo’s pack and saddle next to the others. His dark hair was thoroughly soaked and clung to his skull, tiny rivulets sliding down his forehead and past his cheeks to drip water from his beard onto the cave’s hard ground. With his clothing damp and in disarray, he reminded Bilbo of a stray dog caught in a sudden summer downpour, and the picture was completed when Thorin shook himself to get rid of the excess water.

“Something funny?” the dwarf asked when his intended laughed.

“Yes. I mean no, I… you are very wet, you know?”

“So it seems. I wouldn’t mind a fire to dry my pants and warm my bones. I will see what firewood I can gather.”

Before long, Thorin and his nephews had snatched enough wood from the outskirts of their shelter to build up a nice fire. Wet wood was a pain to light up, but Gloin worked hard and minutes later, strong flames illuminated the mouth of the cave and cast their shadows on the walls. It came as a relief, too, for the rain brought a chill to the air and Bilbo’s breaths came out in white puffs of mist. Shivering a little, the hobbit searched through his pack for a change of clothing and wandered off a bit further down the cave to shed his wet garments in private.

When Bilbo walked back to the fire, all dry and comfortable in a blue tunic and grey pants that reached all the way down to his ankles, he noticed that the dwarves had followed his lead and changed into dry clothes. They had laid out their drenched clothing on a flat, large stone for them to dry in the night, and had gathered around the fire to munch on dried strips of salted beef.

Except one stubborn dwarf, of course.

“You intend to keep those wet clothes all night?” the hobbit asked Thorin as he draped his waistcoat and pants alongside the other garments on the flat stone.

“It’s either that, or walking around in the nude,” Thorin said flatly, trying to tug one of his soggy boots off without much success. “As you so kindly pointed out when we started this journey, I haven’t brought a proper change of clothing, so I have nothing dry to change into.”

Bilbo quickly glanced over at the rest of the company; did any of them bring more than one spare set of clothing? Somehow, he doubted it. “I brought two blankets, you could use one while your clothing dries,” he offered, eyeing the way Thorin’s tunic clung to his broad shoulders with commiseration. And no small amount of interest, too.

“I will not be seen wandering about clad in nothing but a blanket. Besides, my pants are relatively unharmed, I just need to stand close to the fire for a few moments.”

“But your tunic is soaked through! You’re in for a very uncomfortable night.” When that didn’t seem to bother Thorin, Bilbo crossed his arms and laid down his last resort. “I’m not sleeping next to you if you’re wet and cold, mark my words.”

Thorin stilled and Bilbo saw the dwarf’s shoulders tense noticeably. He bit back a grin of victory, not counting his tomatoes before they were harvested, but soon enough the King sighed. “Fine. But I’ll only wear the damn thing to sleep, and that’s the end of it.”

“Fair enough. Dinner, then.”

Dinner turned out to be a quiet, quick affair. With lack of fresh meat or even fruit in the recovering forest, the dwarves feasted on salted meat and slightly moldy cheese. Everyone yearned to be out of Greenwood for a bit of hunting and a visit to Beorn’s house for some well-deserved honey cakes. But they all wolfed down their food and, after one last complaint from Kili about Tauriel not being the one to escort them through the forest – the young lad was driving the whole company mad every night with his lovesick sighs – settled their bedrolls around the mouth of the cave.

Bofur took first watch. It had become some kind of habit for the toy maker to sit next to the fire and work on a block of wood or a piece of leather, his teeth clamped down on a steaming pipe, while everybody crossed from this world to the realms of slumber. The ravens, curious creatures that they were, would saunter up on his shoulders – or even atop his floppy hat – to observe his work and sometimes try to peck at Bofur’s shiny tools. The good-natured dwarf would just chuckle and pet the great birds’ feathers until they eventually grew bored and went back to chasing insects around the fire.

This night was no different, except that Bofur’s pipe was missing and Troäc and Caräk were busy preening their damp feathers in a corner. Outside, rain was still falling in heavy curtains through the trees, quickly turning dirt to mud and Bilbo suddenly pitied their ponies. Even though the beasts were accustomed to harsh weather and even harsher working conditions, his gentle hobbit heart felt for them.

Bilbo was considering grabbing a blanket to hide under and brave the rain to give Snowball a few comforting pats when a soft clicking sound made him turn around and stare in the depths of the dark cave once more. He was almost certain he hadn’t imagined it; then again, with all that rain pounding holes into the dirt outside, it could very well have been all in his mind. Was something lurking back there? Or was he just so weary that his ears were playing tricks on him?

Either way, and although the sound didn’t occur a second time, Bilbo nervously plucked his bedroll from his pack and padded over to the one source of comfort that would ground him and forego any bad feelings he might have about the dark tunnel.

“Still wearing that wet tunic? Thorin, I thought you knew better,” the hobbit said with faked assurance as he sat down next to the dwarf, maybe closer than he usually would. But no complain came from the King.

“I am fine.”

“And what are you writing?” Bilbo asked as he peered over one massive arm at the piece of parchment Thorin was currently scribbling on. “Goodness, Thorin, surely you won’t send a poor raven out in this weather?”

The dwarf shook his head with a chuckle. “No, âzyungel, I won’t. But I need this letter to be sent as soon as the rain stops.”

“What is it about? Will you send it to Erebor?”

“Mahal, hobbits are curious little creatures, aren’t they? Should I be glad that your nose is so small, so skilled that you are at poking it into other people’s business?” Thorin caught the hand that meant to swat him and brushed his whiskered lips against its fingers – unknowingly sending a tingle through those very digits – before he pursued. “This letter carries my greetings and a request for hospitality to someone we will meet on the road.”

Bilbo snorted. “I don’t think Beorn would care for such a letter. He fought by your side and carried you out of the battlefield after you were wounded, I doubt he would mind having us over for a good night’s sleep and a few honeycombs. Eru, I don’t even know if he can read.”

“I was not talking about the skin-changer. The person I have in mind is quite dramatically less hairy, though I wager he likes woods and animals just as much as your bear friend.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “You are writing a letter to _Lord Elrond_? In Rivendell?” The hobbit clamped a hand over his mouth when he realized he had squeaked that last part quite loudly, but a quick look around informed him that his companions were still snoring peacefully. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet, but still carried surprise. “Is it true?”

“Yes. Our stay in Rivendell one year ago was shadowed with doubt and mistrust on my part and most of the company’s, I am afraid we treated our hosts with very little respect and gratefulness for their hospitality. I wish to express my thanks properly and prove that Dwarves can be decent guests.”

“First you forbid access to dangerous gold veins, then you allow two elves to accompany us through Greenwood without throwing a snarling fit, and now, _now_ you’re writing a letter to the Lord of Imladris to thank him and ask if, pretty please, we could spend the night in Rivendell?” Bilbo laughed under his breath. “Who are you, and what have you done to Thorin II Oakenshield?”

Thorin huffed and rolled up his parchment, stashing it away with quill and ink in his rucksack. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he rumbled, but Bilbo caught an amused glint in the King’s blue eyes. “I am only doing this because Lord Elrond helped us on our quest. He provided us with food, shelter and hindsight through his ability to read Moon Runes. As far as Elves go, he is… acceptable.”

“My, has the King Under the Mountain taken a liking to a low-life elf?” Bilbo teased, clutching his bedroll tight to his chest when a small breeze swept in and its cold fingers trailed viciously between tunic and skin. Summer nights weren’t supposed to be so chilly.

“I said I tolerate him, never that I liked him. Are you shivering, kurdel?”

“You have to stop calling me names I don’t understand,” Bilbo replied, and by some miracle his teeth weren’t chattering. “But I admit this is a rather cold night, unexpectedly so even with the rain.” Unconsciously, Bilbo’s eyes travelled back to the unknown, seemingly never-ending depths of the cave. Something down there was calling to him, pleading with him, like the languid purr of a sly cat luring people closer for a belly rub, stretched out on its back like an offering. But cats had claws, and Bilbo was afraid of getting scratched.

A voice whispered in his ear that he wouldn’t get hurt if he couldn’t be seen, and for the second time that evening, the hobbit’s fingers flew to his pocket to glide over his ring. As his skin ghosted over cold gold, the voice got louder, sweeter, all promises of safety and comfort. His pointer finger circled the ring of metal and slowly, ever so slowly, dipped in…

A strong hand landing on Bilbo’s shoulder shook the shireling out of his near-trance and startled his hand out of his pocket. “Come on, let us get some rest,” Thorin’s deep voice muttered, chasing off the disturbing whispers and replacing them with the pleasant promise of a warm night.

Bilbo nodded and unfolded his – their – bedroll some distance away from the fire. Once, back when they were travelling in the Lone-Lands, he had rolled over in his sleep and had almost singed his whole hand in the flames. Since then he had always slept on the outskirts of camp, for fear that he might one day wake up to the scent of charred flesh.

Quickly, he dug his two blankets out of his pack and threw one to Thorin, who nodded his thanks. Then Bilbo plopped down on their bedroll and sighed when his tired legs were relieved of his weight. In his months spent sorting through ancient tomes in the library of Erebor, and in spite of the amount of stairs in the dwarven city, he had neglected to exercise every now and then and much preferred to write in the privacy of his rooms. Something his body was presently feeling the effects of.

After a yawn and a mental note to try and stay in good shape – one or two walks to Dale for tea with Lord Bard per week should do it – Bilbo spread his blanket over his body and squirmed until he was comfortably lying on his side. He closed his eyes and waited patiently for Thorin to come join him.

There was a muffled curse and a few wet noises at his back as Thorin tried to shrug off the sodden tunic, then soft footfalls as the dwarf made his way across camp, probably to leave his clothing to dry alongside the others. Bilbo fought the urge to roll over and spy on a bare-chested, bare-footed Thorin, his toes curling sporadically under the blanket.

He didn’t know which sight would entice him more; a stout, strong chest or broad feet. Both would be entirely new, anyway, since Thorin had yet to take off his boots and his socks in his presence and Bilbo had only been allowed a glimpse at the King’s upper body – but that had been long ago, and at that time Thorin’s chest and shoulders had been burdened with blood-soaked bandages. He wondered if a small peek over his shoulder would be considered a breach of propriety. After all, they were courting, certainly there was no harm…

Bilbo was about to give in and sneak a glance when the weight of a second blanket fell upon him. Confused, he was about to turn around when a larger, warmer body crawled beneath the covers and settled against his back, sending whatever questions had been on Bilbo’s tongue to a faraway place and taking his wits along for the ride.

“My hair is still a bit damp, does it bother you?” Thorin whispered.

Bilbo swallowed and shook his head, not trusting his voice at the moment. Of all the things he had thought could happen that night, cuddling up to a bare-chested Thorin was far off the list. And yet, there was no denying the solid flesh cushioning his back nor the soft hair tickling the back of his neck. Legs that were longer than his slotted in the crooks of his knees and Bilbo’s breath caught when he felt the lightest brush of bare toes against his calloused heels.

His heart, beating fast enough for Hamfast Gamgee to dance a jig along with it, tightened when Thorin twisted one bulky arm under his head for him to use as a makeshift pillow. His cheek pressed up on a dwarven bicep, Bilbo was greeted with the sight of a forearm stretched out on the ground before him, covered with a light dusting of black hair and white, faded scars. Bilbo tried to distract his troubled mind by counting them and trying to imagine what had caused them – that one was clearly a bite, though he didn’t know about the pale blotch in the elbow. Hot poker, maybe? – but the weight of a large hand on his waist and the ghost of a content sigh against the tip of his ear did him in.

Thorin gave a strangled yelp when Bilbo turned around in his arms and pressed up against his chest. “What are you doing?” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“I’m getting comfortable, be quiet.”

Before the dwarf could protest further, Bilbo buried his face into the warm expanse of flesh before him, using one hand to stroke the light pelt there from neck to stomach. “So soft,” he breathed on his third way down, and felt muscles turn to rock under his questing fingers.

“Bilbo…” Though low, Thorin’s voice carried a clear warning. “We can’t-”

“We are not doing anything, you silly dwarf, I’m just getting ready to sleep.” To emphasize his point, Bilbo snuggled up into the larger body, nestling his cheek into the crook of a broad shoulder and wriggling one of his large feet between warmer, and considerably smoother ones. “Besides, were we to… explore a little bit more, nobody would see. You have your back to the rest of the group. I know, I know,” he added hurriedly when Thorin made to pull away, “it’s not about that. Dwarven traditions and all, I get it.”

Thorin fell silent. Bilbo mentally smacked himself and cursed his Tookish tongue. The last thing he needed was for his suitor to think he believed dwarven traditions and courting to be silly things.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling around for a while until his hand rested on Thorin’s bearded cheek and his head was tucked under the King’s chin. “I’m not used to this. Being courted, I mean. If I sometimes move too fast and you feel I’m pressuring you into something you are not ready for, then of course, you must tell me. But darn it, you are not making it easy!”

Suddenly both of Thorin’s arms circled the hobbit’s waist and Bilbo was pulled firmly against a solid dwarven chest with a small noise of surprise. “Neither are you, beloved,” Thorin said huskily, his words hoarse and hot in Bilbo’s ear. “You have no idea how I burn to drag you off to a secluded corner and love you until you are nothing but a lump of melting flesh between my hands, your mind so thoroughly ravished that you can only remember how to say my name.” Thorin pulled away so that Bilbo could gaze into his eyes, but the fire that had been present in his words was nowhere to be found in those deep pools, replaced by fondness. “But this day has not yet come. You are my treasure, my soul, my âzyungel. I would sooner die than deny you the care and respect that a proper courtship requires, and that you deserve.”

Shocked into silence, Bilbo wriggled down in Thorin’s grasp to snuggle into the dwarf’s chest again and hide his growing blush. Trust his suitor to make him feel like he was worth all the gold in Erebor with just a few words.

“For someone who is not skilled with words, you have quite the silver tongue,” he mumbled into Thorin’s collarbone. A small smile made its way on his lips when the dwarf chuckled and wrapped his arms around the shorter body pressed against his. “And quite a lovely chest, as well. Irresistible, almost.”

“Should I put my tunic back on and spare you the temptation?”

“No, thank you, it’s still wet and I promise to behave. Your virtue is safe with me.”

Yawning, Bilbo settled his head down on Thorin’s arm and sighed when thick fingers carded through his unruly hair. He found the gesture so soothing that he was dozing off within minutes, though not before he pressed a sloppy kiss under Thorin’s chin where he could feel a strong heart pulse.

“Goodnight, my King.”

“Rest well, âzyungel. I will keep you safe,” the dwarf whispered back, sealing his promise with a kiss on his hobbit’s forehead.

 

* * *

 

 

In the small hours of the next day, Thorin awoke brutally to the sound of his oath shattering into a thousand pieces, as a scream was torn from Bilbo’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kurdel: heart of all hearts


	7. Spawn of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but the next one is in the works! Enjoy.

When Bilbo was ripped from the fortress of his arms, Thorin lunged forward but only clawed at cold stone, the hobbit’s body already out of reach.

“Thorin!” Bilbo screamed, hands outstretched helplessly as he was dragged down in the depths of the cave by his feet, and at an alarming speed.

“Kili!” the dwarven King roared, but his nephew was already miles ahead. The young dwarf had snatched an arrow and burnt its tip, shooting it down the cave where it embedded itself in the wall and shone light upon Bilbo’s aggressor.

All blood fled Thorin’s face when he caught sight of the spider.

Another anguished wail from Bilbo snapped him back to attention and he dove for Orcrist. All around him his companions were also grabbing their weapons, all thoughts of sleep gone from their minds as the danger Bilbo was in spurred them on.

Taking one burning branch from their fire, Thorin brandished it towards the darkness lying in front of them. And it didn’t matter if tiny embers were falling on his arm and scorching his skin. “This way!” he thundered and, without waiting for anyone’s opinion, he all but ran after the monster and its precious prey.

He should have never let Bilbo sleep on this side of the cavern! Truly, he was a fool for even forgetting the most basic rules of survival and neglecting to inspect the cave thoroughly. If he had, he would have noticed the eight-legged abomination and brought an end to its life before it could even think of touching his beloved Bilbo.

Thorin had been lured into a false state of peace by the hobbit’s soft breathing and enticing body. With a fire to warm his back and Bilbo curled up against his front, the dwarf had let his guard down so dramatically that he hadn’t reacted quickly enough when his intended had been torn from his embrace. He should have known better, should have watched over Bilbo with more tenacity instead of dozing off like an inexperienced dwarfling.

Later, there would be time to berate himself later, when Bilbo was safe and not waiting to be eaten up by a giant spider.

Guided by the flickering light from his makeshift torch and Bilbo’s calls – which tore at his heart but had the odd advantage of proving that the hobbit was still alive and kicking – Thorin charged into the black depths of the tunnel. It ran deeper than expected, and the more he walked on, the narrower the passage became, with sticky webs adorning the walls.

Something crunched under Thorin’s bare foot – he hadn’t bothered to put on his boots in his haste – and the King’s stomach lurched unpleasantly at the sight of a mangled skull that once belonged to a deer. He would not leave Bilbo to be gnawed on by this foul beast until the only thing that remained of his hobbit was a bone or two.

Pressing ever forward with blood pounding in his ears hard enough to make his sight foggy, Thorin ran and ran, guided by the diminishing light of his torch, until he almost hit the wall at the end of the cave head-on. Disoriented, the dwarf turned on the spot, searching every nook and cranny with sharp eyes as worry flooded his brain and hate fuelled his muscles.

_Where is that damn beast? It can’t have just vanished!_

A strangled yelp from above made Thorin snap his neck up and he was relieved – though horrified at the same time – to spot the eight-eyed abomination hanging from the ceiling with a squirming Bilbo in its grasp.

The spider was, if such a thing could be said about those creatures, a bit slow and clumsy in its attempts to wrap Bilbo up in a web cocoon. Only the hobbit’s kicking feet were covered in the sticky stuff, with a few strands running up his legs to cling to his hips. Every time Bilbo wriggled or screamed to get away from the spider, it had to readjust its grip on its prey and begin the whole process again.

They were running low on time.

“Kili!” Thorin bellowed. “Shoot it down! Kill it!”

The archer’s first arrow flew off before the words were even out of Thorin’s mouth, but only struck the wall with a clank, missing its target by a good foot and pulling outraged yelps out of the dwarves present. With a frustrated growl, Kili shot another arrow with fierce determination, only to watch it imbed itself in a nest of sticky cobwebs between two of the creature’s legs.

“Kili, _shoot it_!” Thorin howled, but where before had been fury and determination, now only remained despair.

“I’m trying!” Kili bit back, with a tinge of the same horror that coated his uncle’s voice.

The dying light from Thorin’s torch only served to make the monster’s movements seem even quicker and unpredictable. Hence the loss of many arrows on Kili’s side, all of which either found a new home in some nook in the wall or remained lost to the darkness.

The whole company soon panicked and began throwing whatever they could lay a hand on at the spider. Rocks, wood, fragments of bones, anything was good enough to distract the beast from the small prey in its clutches. Fiercest of all, Thorin waved his torch about and shouted at the top of his lungs, both in Westron and Khuzdul, words that probably would have earned him a week’s worth of ear-boxing by his mother. But Bilbo’s life was at stake and if the price to save him was a few days of sore throat, then Thorin would gladly pay it.

“Release him, you foul beast!” he yelled as rocks of all shapes and sized rained down on the creature. “Give him back! Back you spawn of darkness!”

All around him the rest of the group all yelled similar things, relentless in throwing everything they could grab, but Thorin only had eyes and ears for the struggling form of his intended in the spider’s claws.

Bilbo was hanging upside down most of the time, when he wasn’t being jostled this way and that and covered in a fresh layer of milky silk. He had stopped screaming some while ago, choosing instead to twist and squirm valiantly to get free. To no success at all, obviously. The utter dread that flashed across the hobbit’s face whenever light shone upon his features sent a cold pike through Thorin’s heart, and the dwarf assaulted the spider with renewed effort. If only to see Bilbo’s face free of despair.

For a while, it seemed to work. The spider was distracted long enough for Bilbo to slip down on a few occasions, each time a bit lower than the last, but the monster always dragged its half-wrapped bundle right back up.

Then, something that could have occurred in one of Thorin’s worst nightmares took place.

Whether the spider got tired of Bilbo’s squirming or annoyed by the small items thrown at it, nobody knew. The fact remained that, with a hiss and a menacing snap of jaws, the spider clutched the shireling with four of its legs while the four others remained spread out on the walls of the cave.

Before anything could be done about it, the beast shoved its sting right into Bilbo’s midsection.

Time and space suddenly froze all around Thorin. A horrible scream, halfway between a shriek and a pained wail rang out, echoing off every single wall and piercing the dwarf’s ears as though it was a knife being driven through his eardrums. Even scarier was the fact that the sound was coming from his own mouth.

The King didn’t even register as horrified shouts and terrified calls of Bilbo’s name erupted all around him. He heard them, but as though he was swimming underwater. He was only vaguely aware of somebody, possibly Fili, pushing past him and a large hand, no doubt Dwalin’s, coming down on his shoulder to clutch it.

Nothing could have torn Thorin’s eyes from Bilbo’s suddenly very still figure.

Thorin’s mind stayed blank and unresponsive for a few moments. But when his thoughts and the reality of what had just transpired kicked in, white, hot rage consumed his entire being. It started low in his belly, a pool of lava quickly setting his chest aflame and burning its way up his throat to escape the confines of his body in the form of a broken, heart-splitting roar.

The spider turned partially milky eyes to stare at the dwarf.

_That’s right,_ Thorin thought, anger clouding his mind and sending little tremors down the steel curve of his spine. _That’s right, you monster. Look at death right in the eye, as it comes to you!_

With something akin to a battle cry, Thorin pulled his arm back and flung Orcrist at the creature with all of his strength. A sharp pang of pain speared through his shoulder, soon to be erased by grim satisfaction as the sword dug deep into the spider’s hairy abdomen and remained stuck there.

Letting out a blood-freezing shriek, the beast reared and its legs flailed about, as if it didn’t control them anymore. As such, Bilbo’s body slipped out of its grasp and fell to the ground several feet below with a thud.

The spider’s massive weight soon followed but unlike its prey, the heir of Ungoliant landed on its legs and towered over the hobbit’s prone figure although Thorin had expected it to writhe and draw its last, disgusting breath.

Gleaming in the light of the dying fire, Orcrist was still lodged deep in the monstrosity’s underside, undisturbed by the sudden drop. Deep enough, for sure, but not so well-placed that it could hit something vital or bleed to spider to death. If anything, the sword slicing through its flabby flesh had only succeeded in making it angrier.

Leaving Bilbo in the relative dampness of the cave’s uneven ground, the spider turned around to face the company. Thorin’s torch was about to go out, and their hopes with it – for the creature knew the cave better than they did and would certainly have the upper hand were a fight to take place in complete darkness – but there was still enough light left to see the promise of a long, agonizing death in the long-legged menace’s eyes.

Kili was out of arrows and the other dwarves had thrown everything they could. Was it really going to end like this? They had survived the year-long quest to reclaim Erebor. They had lived through the greatest battle of the century, had been victorious and escaped with relatively minor injuries. Had fate decided that the line of Durin would have to fight and suffer through those ordeals only to die in a secluded cave, cut off from the rest of the world, with a venomous sting spearing them to the wall?

Thorin just managed to get one last look at his nephews’ terrified faces, before the spider lunged, and the light went out.

The dwarven King wondered if, somehow, Bilbo had earned the right to visit the Halls of Mahal. If not, well, he would just have to escape and break into… wherever hobbits went after they died. Of this, he had no idea.

Weaponless and blind, Thorin raised clenched fists in front of his face. Certainty of death or not, it would not be sung that the King Under the Mountain went down without a fight. Though he doubted there would be enough left of his body to sing about by the end of the next day, or that his people would ever find out about their whereabouts.

He waited and waited. But the fatal blow never came.

All around him, Thorin could hear confused whispers, and Dwalin’s cursing about beasts liking to play with their food before they ate it. The heavy silence was deafening, and Thorin waited in fevered trepidation, beads of cold sweat running down his still bare back and bathing the sides of his face.

“This creature looks familiar.”

The sudden, clear voice made Thorin jump and tore strangled yelps from the rest of the company, as well as a loud Khuzdul curse from Fili. Agitation wore down when the dwarves realized who had spoken.

No wonder the spider hadn’t attacked.

“Indeed, Manwen. That crescent-shaped pattern on its back could not be easily forgotten. We have hunted this one before, in the Mountains. Its wounds must have not been fatal.”

“Linnir scouted the Mountains one month ago. He said that they were rid of all evil.”

“Alas, sister. Evil has eyes to see danger and powerful legs to flee it, I am afraid.”

“Could ye please stop talkin’ as if we weren’t here?” Bofur exclaimed when it didn’t look as though the elves were going to acknowledge them anytime soon.

“Oh. Apologies.”

There was some shuffling and a soft, bluish glow bloomed into what turned out to be one of the elves’ hand. It slowly grew brighter, and within a few seconds cast enough light for Thorin to see the features of the dwarves standing closest to him. As well as the feathered arrows jutting out from between the spider’s dead eyes.

The tree-shaggers’ accuracy in the dark was spectacular, he had to give them that.

“It seems my sister and I arrived just in time,” Hatholnin drawled, and Thorin noted that the eerie blue light was coming from a small crystal vial when the elf twirled it in his long, elegant fingers. “A pity, though, that we couldn’t save the halfling.”

Bilbo!

Thorin whirled around and half-jumped, half-climbed over the spider’s corpse to reach the hobbit-shaped lump behind it. He gathered Bilbo’s body in his arms and was downright frightened to find it limp and unresponsive. Splaying a hand on the smaller chest, he was met with a slimy substance that he didn’t dare identify just yet, but which warmth made dread pool in his stomach.

He needed more light to properly assess the damage done and – he couldn’t bring himself to formulate the thought completely lest he broke down – whether or not his intended would live to see the next day.

Without a single word, Thorin lifted Bilbo up as though he weighed no more than a handful of sand and stomped toward the mouth of the cave where their fire and a rising sun would provide more help than silly glowing elven vials. Equally silent, Fili and Kili were hot on his heels, and Thorin could feel the same despair that inhabited his heart coming off in waves from his nephews.

The budding lights of dawn guided him out of the spider’s lair and even though his mind was nothing but a raging inferno, he managed to settle Bilbo down with the care that the hobbit’s condition required.

“Is that blood on his tunic?” Kili whispered, too afraid to step any closer than beside the fire where he had stopped.

His older brother, who appeared just as concerned but less wary, knelt beside Bilbo when Thorin did. “It doesn’t look like blood, it’s too dark,” Fili mused, not quite touching Bilbo just yet and settling for racking his gaze all over the smaller body. “Whatever this is, it can’t be good.”

The mess on Bilbo’s chest and the tunic itself prevented Thorin from seeing the actual injury. Although his mind reeled at the thought of a hole in his beloved’s stomach, his hands dove for the hem of the blue tunic.

Trembling fingers struggled with the fastenings which were glued together by the dark substance coating the clothes. Thorin’s patience finally snapped and he grabbed the tunic with both hands, ripping fabric apart along with the strands of cobweb clinging to it.

Where he had expected pale, blood-smeared flesh, only shiny silver mail met his eye.

Smooth and dazzling save for a black blotch around the midsection, the mithril shirt was still a little too big for Bilbo despite several months of hearty meals in Erebor. It clung loosely to narrow shoulders and cascaded down to the hobbit’s tummy, where it had been hiked up by Thorin’s violent tugs to reveal a hint of bare skin above the waistband of Bilbo’s pants.

Magnificent. And intact.

Thorin ran his hand down the mithril chainmail once more, kept silent by shock and puzzlement as he met no hole or tear. Sharply, he lifted the glittering garment to peer at Bilbo’s bare chest. With the exception of a fist-sized red mark on the stomach, that would doubtlessly bruise later, the skin there remained unblemished. The dwarf ran gentle, bewildered fingers down the hobbit’s belly to feel whole, soft skin.

Lost in thoughts, the blood pounding in his ears and the sound of heavy rain almost too much to bear, little mattered to Thorin other than the warm flesh beneath his touch. He was just coming back to his senses when the chest he was absently stroking heaved brutally.

“Ah!” Bilbo came to with a gasp and a strangled scream. Had Thorin’s hand not been pushing down on his chest, he would have shot straight up. Instead, he just stayed spread out on the cold, damp ground, his eyes wild and uneven pants coming out in sharp rasps.

Those hazel orbs met Thorin’s as they bounced back and forth, and Bilbo’s fright calmed down considerably.

“Tho… Thorin,” the shireling croaked, his right hand coming up to clutch the dwarf’s forearm as he tried to pull himself up.

Hearing his name on Bilbo’s lips grounded Thorin and instant relief washed over his heart and soothed his raging mind. His hobbit yet lived to draw breath.

“Yes, beloved,” he whispered, running fingers in Bilbo’s sweat-soaked curls to comb them away from his eyes. “You are safe now. I have you.”

Bilbo shook his head. “No… Thorin… listen… there is… there’s…”

“What is it, âzyungel?”

“There’s… a spider… back there, in the cave… it’s big… be careful.”

His mission seemingly accomplished, Bilbo let go of Thorin’s forearm and fell back down to the ground where he panted, his eyes closed and his mouth open in aftershock of his latest dance with death.

Thorin fought the urge to laugh with all his might and leaned over, pressing a relieved kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. He repeated the gesture when it brought a soft noise of protest from the hobbit, if only to confirm that he was alive and mostly unharmed, and quickly gathered him up in his arms again to carry him to their bedroll. Bilbo whined quietly and curled up against Thorin’s bare chest, little tremors running up and down his body. The movement caused some of the dark substance, that the dwarf now thought was spider venom, to drip onto the ground.

“We will get you clean and rested before we depart again,” Thorin muttered as he laid Bilbo down on the bedroll. Footsteps indicated the arrival of the rest of the company, soon followed by Kili’s enthusiastic exclamations about Bilbo being alive and uninjured. “Lift your arms, now.”

Bilbo obeyed and let the dwarf tug the venom-covered mithril shirt up and off his body. As soon as the soiled chainmail was off, the hobbit shivered, and Thorin quickly dragged a blanket over Bilbo’s frame.

“Thank you,” the shireling mouthed.

“You have nothing to thank me for,” the King replied, taking a seat next to his intended. “Especially not when I have failed to protect you as I swore to.”

“It’s not your fault.” With a weak smile, Bilbo’s hand wriggled out from under the blanket to rest upon Thorin’s on the ground. “Nobody could have prevented this.”

“I could. I should have scouted the cave before we went to sleep. I should have held you tighter when the beast came for you. I should have protected you better than that.”

“You did protect me, Thorin.” Bilbo squeezed the dwarf’s hand. “The mithril chainmail… it was a gift. From you. Or don’t you remember pestering me into wearing it every time I set foot out of Erebor?” The hobbit chuckled, though it came out as a wheeze. “Well, I did. Thanks to you. Now, could you do me a favor?”

“Anything, âzyungel.”

“Put on a shirt. I’m trying to regain control over my breathing and you are not helping.”

With a mock snort, Thorin leaned over to press his forehead to Bilbo’s for a moment. The hobbit was alive, and well enough if he could make jokes.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached Thorin’s ears. He raised his head, expecting his nephews or other dwarves to come check up on Bilbo, but frowned when he caught sight of two pointy-eared nuisances.

“You,” he growled, letting go of Bilbo’s hand so that he could stand up. He knew he wasn’t a particularly impressive sight, bare-chested and still wobbly from the attack on Bilbo, but he made himself as tall as he could. “You were supposed to rid the forest of those foul beasts. I should have never trusted you.”

“We have just saved your lives,” Hatholnin said evenly, though not without a nice amount of scorn. “I have heard that Dwarves were grateful creatures. Obviously, whoever made that statement, they were sorely mistaken.”

“That spawn of evil should have never been there in the first place!” Thorin snarled. He ignored Bilbo’s call for him to calm down and advanced on the elves. “That you allowed it to build a nest so close to the road is unacceptable! Am I to understand that your reports are just lies fomented by your wretched King to lure me into a false sense of security?”

Something flashed in Hatholnin eyes. “Watch your tongue, dwarf. Or you might lose it.”

“ _You_ watch your tongue, lad!” Dwalin growled, stomping over to them. “You’re speaking to the King!”

“He is no King of mine. I’ll speak however I wish to.”

Thorin was about to bite back something nasty when Manwen laid a hand on her brother’s chest. “Peace, Hatholnin. You are being disrespectful.” The graceful elven maid then stepped forth until she was standing directly in front of the dwarf. “We could not have foreseen the presence of the spider near you last night, we cannot be held accountable for the location of its nest. Nevertheless, we wandered too far away when we should have been at your side, as we were given the mission of seeing your company through the forest unharmed. We have neglected your safety, King Thorin, and for this failure we offer our deepest apologies.”

As if this wasn’t enough, Manwen dropped down on one knee and bowed her head low. Thorin knew he was probably wearing the same scandalized expression that etched over Hatholnin’s face when his sister gave him an insistent glare and the elven warrior imitated her.

Suddenly at a loss for words, Thorin’s mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came out. He had to say something, anything, to reclaim the control that the elves had snatched from him by kneeling down, but every single comment died on his lips.

He had to be quite the comical sight, since he caught Fili and Bofur attempting to hide smirks in their sleeves – and doing a poor job of it.

“I suppose,” he drawled reluctantly, “that this twist of fate could not be avoided. A lone spider hiding away must be easy to miss. I am… thankful, that you arrived when you did. Master Baggins’ life has been spared and that is all that matters.”

Thorin turned away to gaze at something amidst the heavy curtains of rain still digging holes into the dirt outside. He didn’t want to see the triumphant smiles on the elves’ faces at his words. “Be ready to leave at moment’s notice. I don’t wish to linger here more than I have to.”

He stomped away to fetch his tunic and some food for Bilbo.

Three elves had apologized to him in the course of a single week. Never before had this happened in his entire life. And Thorin hated how helpless it made him feel.


	8. Of Rivers and Misconceptions

The rain didn’t let up until they were on the other side of Greenwood, standing under a Forest Gate restored to its full glory.

The two trees that formed the arch-like opening were still covered in blackish lichen and vibrant ivy, but they looked remarkably healthier than when Bilbo had first seen them. At least they were free of those dark vines and no longer suffocated under the curses thrown over the forest.

The white statue and the fountain that sat next to it had been rid of their mysterious red markings. Was it a result of the dark magic wearing off, or just a few days of hard rain, Bilbo didn’t know, but he found them quite lovely. The way they shone under the bright Sun that had taken residence in the skies for the previous hour or so appealed to his eyes.

The day was still young, yet Bilbo was weary. The incident with the spider, though still fresh in his mind, had occurred two days prior and had dissuaded Thorin from sleeping in Greenwood ever again. The King had taken the reins of the company – in spite of Fili’s protests – and had worked the lot of them like dogs to reach the other side of the large forest. The dwarves hadn’t complained and had spurred their ponies on as though Durin’s Bane itself was coming after them.

So under the rain they rode, shielding their supplies as best as they could with blankets or their own bodies. Not that there was much left to get soaked, anyway; only a handful of dried fruit each, along with a chunk of cheese. They had initially planned to hunt in the forest, they hadn’t expected the elves to forbid them from doing so. To top it off, Bilbo had to deal with two troublesome ravens who kept seeking refuge from the rain under his cloak, only to peck greedily at his pockets where bits of cram were stashed for the hobbit to nibble on when he was hungry.

Bilbo was probably the first of his kind too weary to properly defend his food, so he let them.

Sighting the Forest Gate, along with the apparition of the Sun, was a pleasant occurrence. As much as Bilbo enjoyed seeing Greenwood so healthy and – relatively – free of any danger, he had no problem admitting that he missed hills and the possibility to see beyond ten feet ahead of himself.

“Mahal’s Hammer,” Bofur sighed as he took off his floppy hat to shake off excessive water. “I thought that downpour would never stop and that we were gonna drown!”

“I kind of liked it,” Bombur piped in. “Now we are finally rid of that awful stench you carry ‘round, brother!”

“Like yer one to talk! You break a bathtub each time ye bathe, that’s why you only do it once a month, ye flabby oliphant!”

Troäc and Caräk took off from Thorin’s shoulders with cries of “Oliphant! Oliphant!” that sent the whole company – except Thorin himself, though he looked less grumpy, and of course Bombur – laughing. Bilbo’s spirits soared up with the raven brothers, higher and higher despite his weariness, until he thought he might actually get drunk from the mere warmth of the Sun upon his skin and barks of laughter.

Hatholnin’s voice brought Bilbo back down on Arda.

“This is where we must part,” the elf said calmly once the ponies had crossed the threshold of the Gate. “Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield, may Manwë guide you and your kin safely through the most unkind lands.”

“You’re leaving?” Bilbo blurted out before he thought. He needed to work on that.

“Yes, Master Hobbit,” Manwen said with a gentle smile. “We were to return to the Elvenking’s Halls as soon as we saw you to the Forest Gate. It is done now, and we must depart.”

“Oh. Alright then. Be safe, I… guess.”

Bilbo turned around in his saddle to chance a glance at Thorin. The dwarf was, unsurprisingly, glaring down at the ground between Fili’s pony’s hooves as though he was trying to turn the pebbles there to ash. He almost seemed to be struggling for something to say, but the game of light and shadow cast by the Sun could have been misleading Bilbo’s eyes.

It wasn’t until the elves turned around after one last nod that Thorin spoke up.

“If you are willing, we would be in need of guides on our way back,” he grumbled, as if somebody was holding a knife under his throat and forcing him to spell the words. “You have proven yourself to be helpful, and I would be most glad if you could lead my people through Greenwood anew.”

For a few seconds, both Hatholnin and Manwen looked stunned. Of all the emotions – or lack thereof – that Bilbo had seen elves display in the short span of time he had socialized with them, astonishment was a novelty. Wariness soon replaced surprise on Hatholnin’s fair face, something that better suited the elven warrior, but a small, almost polite smile made its way on Manwen’s lips as she looked at the dwarven King.

“We will inform the Elvenking of your request. Wait for us here at the Forest Gate upon your return, and rest assured that your passage through Greenwood will be a safe one.”

“You have my gratitude.”

With one last, uncertain look as to where they stood, both elves and Thorin walked away in opposite direction. Hatholnin and Manwen disappeared back into the thick vegetation that constituted the border of Greenwood; Thorin nudged his still drenched Jango along the path, his shoulders squared and head held high.

Bilbo forewent his aching legs and sore backside and spurred Snowball forward until he was riding directly alongside his beloved suitor. Who had yet to turn his fat head and acknowledge him.

“So,” the hobbit began tentatively, a smirk stretching his lips even before he finished his sentence, “your gratitude, eh?”

Thorin’s mouth stayed stubbornly shut. Typical.

“You know, it’s actually quite nice, to see you interact with elves in a way that doesn’t involve death glares or insults. I may be a hopeless fool, but dare I say I detected a hint of friendliness in your parting words?”

An annoyed grunt. Well, it was an improvement, and Bilbo wasn’t about to ignore a victory, small as it was.

“I’m confident that one day, you’ll even be able to smile at an elf. Maybe not this year, and maybe not to just any elf, but I’m sure you’ll come to it. Underneath all those iron layers, I know you have a soft heart.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Master Baggins,” Thorin growled, combing his wet hair back with his left hand. “There is nothing soft about me.”

“So you like to think. But the way you’ve held me those last few nights tells me otherwise.”

Thorin fell silent, and Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek to rein in a satisfied grin. He may have just imagined it, but he could have sworn he saw a blush creeping up the dwarf’s thick neck. Unless it was just the Sun playing games on the warrior’s skin.

And what a fine sight Thorin was, all glistening under the early summer celestial body. His still damp hair was thrown back and rested heavily on his shoulder blades, slapping against the dwarf’s back with every step his steed took. The fabric and fur of his tunic was thoroughly drenched, clinging to his skin, and a slight shudder ran down Bilbo’s spine at the memory of broad shoulders and a strong chest pressed against his back.

It had been both his best and worst night since the beginning of their journey, more than one week prior. His first opportunity to share something more than chaste kisses and hugs, and a blasted spider had to come and ruin it all. If Bilbo had been a more pessimistic hobbit, he would have said it was to be expected.

 _There’ll be time_ , he thought to himself, patting Snowball’s white mane when the pony shook it. _When we rest in Bag End or when we get back to Erebor. We have all the time in the world. Certainly, I can be more patient than this pig-headed dwarf._

“Fili, you are taking the lead,” Thorin called, tugging on his reins until his mount stopped. “Don’t stray off path. If we ride hard, we should reach Beorn’s Hall sometime in the afternoon.”

Ride hard. Oh joy.

They did just that. After days on end of walking on Greenwood’s slippery soil, the ponies were only too happy to run up and down grass-covered hills, with the Sun drying their pelt and the winds whipping their manes this way and that – and more often than not right into one unsuspecting dwarven face. The loads on their backs bounced with every stride and Bilbo had to struggle to keep up with the rest of the group and stay rooted in his saddle at the same time. Once or twice, he felt his backside stray dangerously close to the side, forcing him to clutch handfuls of mane and grit his teeth as he fought to keep his balance.

Minutes felt like days, and hours felt like… well, eternity. From the laughter that the wind escorted to Bilbo’s ears, he was possibly the only one having trouble with this extended bout of gallop in the plains. Everyone else seemed to have fun.

Fili and Kili were pushing their ponies faster and faster with carefree peals of laughter. It looked like they were racing. Every now and then, they turned their mounts around or slowed down until the rest of the company caught up to them. Then they would be off again, with Gloin yelling at them that they were going to kill the poor beasts before they even saw the shadow of the first honeycomb. Their playfulness reminded Bilbo of how young the princes were by dwarven standards, and seeing them so untroubled was a nice change from their months on the quest.

Thorin seemed to appreciate it as well, for Bilbo saw the dwarf’s lips twitch up into a fond smile every time his nephews careened back to the group with their hair in disarray and their breathing coming out in sharp pants. He never once scolded them, even when they ran too close to Dwalin’s mare, causing the animal to rear and the burly warrior to curse. He did chastise them a bit when they stole Bofur’s hat and threw it back and forth between the two of them as the toy maker pursued them with outraged shouts.

Somebody other than Bilbo was having a hard time, and that was Bombur’s pony. Bearing the dwarf’s massive weight was one thing, but the added strain of a gallop was maybe a bit too much for the gelding, if the foam marring his neck and dribbling from his mouth was any indication. The rotund cook slowed his steed down for a trot every now and then, and Bilbo used the excuse to settle into a more comfortable pace and wait for Bombur to catch up. His saddle sores were grateful for it.

But they escaped his forethoughts when the hobbit spotted the first giant bumblebee.

No more than a half mile away, Beorn’s Hall stood as tall and green as it had been in Bilbo’s memories. The oak trees that surrounded the inner garden – which should be in full bloom, to his great delight – were already wearing their heavy summer coat and partially shielding the large house from sight. On either side of the high wooden gate, the impressive thorny hedge was dotted with red spots that ought to be flowers. Roses, mayhap.

The beehives were probably overflowing with honey. The thought of Beorn’s great table laden with jars of the sugar treat and fresh bread made Bilbo’s mouth water and he unconsciously urged Snowball faster down the road where everyone else was waiting.

He briefly wondered why the dwarves had stopped so close to their goal, when he spotted the last obstacle that stood between the company and much-needed rest.

Although they had first arrived to Beorn’s Hall in a rush the previous year, Bilbo distinctly remembered the peaceful, shallow stream lazily making its way around the estate. They had had to cross it, and the cool water had been like a soothing balm on his abused soles at the time. He had seen Beorn’s ponies drinking from it more than once, had washed his old waistcoat on the flat pebbles before they had had to depart again.

It had been calm and welcoming. Nothing like the violent river that now denied them access to Beorn’s wonderful garden.

Sitting up straight in his saddle, Bilbo could see that the torrent was at least fifty feet wide, and no longer a small arm of the great Anduin. Judging by the speed at which bits of wood were travelling on the surface, the current was strong and the hobbit had to wonder just how a few days of hard rain could amount to this.

As they walked closer, the sounds of running water became almost unbearably loud, as if they were surrounded by thousands of tiny waterfalls. Worry gnawed at Bilbo’s heart; would they even be able to cross it? Even if the water didn’t come up high on the ponies, it was quite obvious from the way they shifted and stamped the dirt that the animals were nervous. They were exhausted after such a long period of time without rest, and looked ready to bolt at moment’s notice.

Thorin broke away from the group and nudged Jango closer to the wild river. To better assess the depths of the water, Bilbo wagered, but for once his attention was solely focused on the black pony between the King’s legs. And said pony didn’t look comfortable with standing so close to rushing, probably freezing water. Not at all.

“Seems shallow enough to cross it,” Thorin said, shouting to be heard over the ambient noise and missing the flicker of Jango’s ears as they fell back flat against his skull. “The current is strong, so I advise you- Woah!”

It was bound to happen. With the cumulated fatigue of two entire days of travel and the proximity of such a loud, potential danger, Jango’s patience finally snapped. With a frightened neigh, the pony reared up and sent Thorin flying through the air. The dwarf landed on his shoulder on the moss-covered ground, but thankfully his hand never released the vice-like grip it had on the reins and Jango didn’t bolt away or trample him.

“Good gracious! Thorin, are you alright?” Bilbo called once he had recovered from the shock.

“I’m fine,” the dwarf grunted back as he struggled to push himself up with one hand, all the while holding Jango back with the other. He stood as tall as he could and never mind the mud cackling his left side.

Thorin raised a hand and Bilbo, for one shameful second, was afraid that his suitor was going to hit the pony as punishment for his little stunt. But Thorin’s fingers came down to rest on Jango’s soft nose to stroke it soothingly. The dwarf’s mouth moved to form what Bilbo thought to be reassurances to his steed, although he was not close enough to hear properly.

“Everyone, dismount,” Thorin said once Jango stopped stamping the ground. “The ponies cannot bear our weight and fight the current at the same time. Wrap a piece of fabric around their eyes and lead them through the waters.”

“Are you sure it’s not too deep, Uncle?” Fili worried as he slid down from his saddle.

“Quite certain.”

Bilbo followed Fili’s lead and dismounted quietly. As he dug into his pack to retrieve a handkerchief that he would use as a blindfold on Snowball, he couldn’t help but worry at his lower lip. Oh, sure, Dwarves had iron feet and would probably withstand even a current twice as hard as the one they were going to brave. But even on his better days, and even less so with his stomach muscles hurting from his encounter with the spider, Bilbo wasn’t sure he would be able to walk through such a violent stream.

Now. How to break the news to Thorin without sounding like a helpless fauntling?

As it turned out, it was the dwarven King himself who neared Bilbo once the handkerchief was firmly tied around Snowball’s head. “Bilbo,” he said. “Give your pony to Dwalin. I will carry you.”

“Y-you’ll what?” the hobbit sputtered. “No. No no no. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You weigh less than a battle axe. You are hardly a burden. Now please hand your reins over to Dwalin, I would like to get this over with as soon as possible.”

“I can take care of myself!” Bilbo said indignantly, though he deplored that it came out as a squeak. “I can ride on Snowball’s back, as you said I weigh a lot less than you dwarves. I won’t bother him.”

“What if your pony gets scared and throws you off in the middle of the river? I won’t take the risk of you drowning when I can avoid it. Now, be quick.”

Before Bilbo could protest further – in all honesty, he didn’t know why he kept doing it, since he would be ill-suited to cross the river on his own anyway – he felt his reins being tugged out of his grasp as Dwalin snatched Snowball away.

“Kili, please help Master Baggins, so that we can reach Beorn’s house sometime today.”

Strong hands grabbed Bilbo under his arms and hefted him on Thorin’s shoulders before the hobbit could so much as screech. The only thing he could do was hold on to Thorin’s head with both legs and try to keep his balance by clutching handfuls of dark hair.

“Not so hard, Bilbo,” Thorin hissed, squeezing his intended’s knee where it had taken up residence against his cheek. “You won’t fall. I swear.”

“How can you seriously promise that?” Bilbo snapped, releasing the raven strands only to wrap his arms around the dwarf’s head. “Yavanna, you’re even more unstable than a drunk pony! I don’t even think I’ve ever mounted a pony as tall as you, this is downright scary! How Men manage to stand it on a daily basis, I wonder.”

“Beloved, you are rambling.” Thorin made sure the black rag he had tied over Jango’s eyes wouldn’t fall and grabbed the reins. “Just trust me.”

“I would trust you with my life, Thorin. Just not my balance.”

With a chuckle, the dwarven King wrapped his free arm around Bilbo’s legs to steady him and made his way over to where dirt ended and water began.

Loathe as he was to be once more a burden on the company, Bilbo admitted that, though unexpected, this way to cross the river suited him. While he was a decent swimmer by Shire standards – his floating and dog-paddling skills were unequalled in Hobbiton – he didn’t trust himself with the rapids. He felt safer up there, on Thorin’s shoulders; but the dwarf didn’t need to know that.

His ego was big enough as it was.

The first few steps were easy enough. Bilbo leaned a bit sideways to grab a handful of Jango’s mane and keep his balance. His other hand rested on Thorin’s head and itched to bury itself in the dwarf’s long hair, but he refrained from it.

Soon, however, the water came up high enough to tease the pony’s belly and the animal neighed nervously. Bilbo grabbed one of Thorin’s courting braids and fidgeted with it as he felt Jango’s muscles twitch sporadically. This was not a good idea. Panic lingered on the border of the hobbit’s thoughts but he managed to keep it at bay.

When they reached the middle of the river and water sprang up to lick Bilbo’s lightly furred toes, he was unable to keep the words in. “Thorin,” he began nervously, “are you sure about this?”

The dwarf’s head twisted a bit until he could catch Bilbo’s gaze from the corner of his eyesight. “About what, exactly?”

“ _This_. Walking through that river with water up to your waist, a hobbit on your shoulders and- for Eru’s sake!” Bilbo quipped when Jango sidestepped and almost slipped. His balance temporarily lost, he grabbed fistfuls of the pony’s mane with both hands. His thighs were trembling on either side of Thorin’s face, he knew, and he felt ready to be sick. He was surrounded by rushing water, on a precarious perch, and nobody would be able to come to his aid were he to fall and be carried away down the river.

He had every right to feel sick!

“I’m dead,” he mumbled when the pony he was leaning on bucked a bit with a nervous whinny. “I travelled over the whole of Middle-Earth and faced a dragon, and now I’m going to die crushed to bits under tons of freezing water until there’s not even enough left to feed the fish.”

“At least you’ll die with your legs around my neck. I thought you would be happy about that.”

“Don’t joke! Not _now_!” If Bilbo trusted himself not to fall right off, he would have untangled a hand from Jango’s mane to hit the dwarven oaf on the head. He knew he was whimpering, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Oh, why couldn’t he just sprout wings and fly over the blasted river? He suddenly envied Troäc and Caräk who were doubtlessly already on the other side and waiting for them, looking down their beaks at the hairy bipeds pulling just as hairy quadrupeds after them across the water. The ravens were probably having a good laugh at their expense.

Especially at the dark-haired dwarf leading the group’s, who had been gifted with a fidgety hobbit and a particularly jumpy pony. Unlucky fellow, that one.

Bilbo put his feet flat against Thorin’s chest and willed them not to shake. He wished he could do like Jango and press himself up against the dwarf’s sturdy body, his head tucked under one steady arm as soft words, an exotic mix of Khuzdul and Westron, were being whispered into his ear. Thorin’s hands would ground him, and his warmth would thwart the shivers that cold water sent down his back.

Great. Now he was jealous of a pony as well as ravens.

A broad hand encased one of his fuzzy ankles to give it a gentle squeeze. “How are you up there?” Thorin asked.

“One of the best days of my life,” Bilbo snapped, maybe a bit too sharply. But his nerves had taken over and his mind no longer had serious control over his mouth.

Thankfully, Thorin did not take offense.

“We are almost on the other side, hold on a little longer, my heart.”

The endearment rolled off the dwarf’s tongue easily and did wonders to soothe Bilbo. He allowed his grip on Jango’s mane to slacken and even felt bold enough to temporarily unlatch a hand from the pony’s fur to squeeze it between his thigh and Thorin’s face and lay it flat on the dwarf’s cheek.

“When this is over, I don’t care what you say about propriety or all those silly things Dwarves hold as customs, I want a hug and don’t you dare let go before tomorrow morning!”

Thorin’s shoulders shook slightly as he chuckled and he gave Bilbo’s shin a reassuring pat.

Burly dwarven legs plowed through the rushing river as though it was thin air. The steel-capped boots were certainly filled to the brim with freezing water, broad toes swimming in the encased space. Was Thorin cold? Bilbo knew Dwarves were a hardy folk, but this was the third day in a row that his suitor found himself drenched down to his underclothes. Could he catch a chill?

The prospect sent a spike of alarm through the Baggins side of Bilbo and he was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to smother Thorin in blankets in front of a hearty fire and feed him soup until the dwarf’s stomach was full of the warm stuff. And probably sneak in a snuggle or two with the excuse of sharing body heat, Bilbo’s Tookish side smirked.

To both the hobbit’s relief and his disappointment, Dwarves rarely fell sick. If ever.

Soon water trailed down to Thorin’s thighs and well past his knees. When his dark boots breached the surface, Bilbo didn’t waste any time jumping down from his perch and running the last few feet in ankle-deep water to reach the nice, inviting dirt of the riverbank where he collapsed.

“Thank Yavanna for everything that is green!” he breathed, his nose buried in blades of grass. If others thought him ridiculous or mud was getting in his hair, he didn’t mind. Eru, did he hate water when it wasn’t shallow or calm. Or both at the same time.

Large hooves stopped in front of his eyes along with a pair of sodden boots, and kept him from the sight of the magnificent sun-kissed hills that surrounded Beorn’s Hall. “Who could have guessed? Bilbo Dragonriddler Baggins, afraid of a little water.”

“You make it sound as if I am scared of a puddle.” Bilbo lazily rolled until he was lying on his back and gratified the dwarven King with a stern frown. “And I’ve told you before, don’t call me that.”

“You would rather I call you Master Hobbit?” Droplets hit the ground near Bilbo as Thorin wrung water out of his tunic. “I thought I had earned the right to call you by your birth name, but if it displeases you…”

“You know what I am talking about, Your Majesty.”

The formal title, though foreign on Bilbo’s lips, had the expected effect of making Thorin’s face scrunch up in disapproval. The dwarf snorted and shrugged, busying his hands with untying Jango’s blindfold. “Very well. But it was not I who gave you that name. The whole of Erebor is quite impressed by the way you handled Smaug, many ballads are sung in its halls about the Dragonriddler. It is a mark of respect.”

“Well, let’s hope it is just a passing fancy, I don’t like to be reminded of that particular feat every time I get introduced to somebody,” Bilbo mumbled as he raised his weight on his elbows to watch the rest of the dwarves. They were still crossing the river, some – namely Bombur – with less success than others.

Thorin’s deep chuckle sounded somewhere above his head. “I think not. Once, I broke my shield on a battlefield, it caused an uproar and people are still talking about it. You faced a dragon alone and lived to tell the tale.” A heavy hand came down to rest on Bilbo’s honeyed curls. “People will speak of your deeds for ages.”

The pride and warmth in Thorin’s words made Bilbo’s stomach clench and his cheeks feel hotter than they should. He squirmed; did the dwarf have any idea what his rare praises did to him? Probably not. “I’m not comfortable with it,” he said finally to break the silence, hoping that from his position Thorin couldn’t see his flushed face. “I don’t need titles or songs or silly tales about how I only managed to anger a giant lizard into burning a whole city. I’m just a simple hobbit, a stranger to those of your kin still in the Blue Moutains even.”

“You have stopped being a ‘simple hobbit’ the day you ran after us, waving your contract around. You are not the same Bilbo who fainted in his own home at the mention of a dragon.” There was a soft thud as Thorin dropped to one knee beside his intended and brushed his lips against the smaller male’s temple. “Nor are you a stranger to me or my kin, âzyungel. My One.”

Bilbo’s skin tingled pleasantly where the whiskered lips had nuzzled. He looked up into fond blue eyes and offered Thorin the warmest smile he had in store.

Gandalf had been right. He would return to Hobbiton, not as a soft-hearted, perfectly respectable hobbit, but changed beyond what he had ever imagined. He had seen more of the world than all the hobbits in the Shire put together, had felt the cruellest dread and the most radiant joy on his journey, sometimes in the course of one single day. He had more friends than he had had neighbors in Bag End, and had embraced love, even though it first came under the guise of a stern-looking dwarf calling him a grocer and abusing his patience.

Oh, Lobelia was going to have a fit about that. Bilbo giggled at the mere thought of his mouse-faced cousin’s squeak if Thorin were to answer the door in his stead.

“Have I said something strange enough to warrant laughter?”

“No.” Bilbo leaned up to catch the dwarf’s lips for a quick kiss and erase the frown from his beloved’s face before it worsened. “I was just thinking. There are some relatives that I would like you to meet in Hobbiton.”

“And what are you two whispering about?”

Thorin and Bilbo turned their heads at the same time toward the third, mildly annoyed voice.

There was not an inch of Fili that wasn’t thoroughly drenched. From his golden braids to the tip of his brown boots, water was dripping from the young dwarf in endless rivulets as though he was sweating them out of his very body. Unruly bangs of blond hair were plastered down his face, entering the corners of his mouth and meddling with his once neatly braided mustache.

All in all, Fili looked like a drowsy, scarred beaver that just had its dam collapsing on its head in mid-winter.

“We were talking about epithets and how we sometimes don’t get to choose them,” Bilbo filled in, stifling a laugh. He distracted his mind by standing up and brushing dirt from his clothes.

Fili’s annoyed expression softened into something resembling a sympathetic gaze. “Oh. Yes. I’ve heard about that. I guess nobody would like to be called… well, you know.”

“Thank you… I suppose?” Bilbo gave the young prince a puzzled look. He held no particular fondness for his position as Dragonriddler, but even he couldn’t deny that the title had a nice ring. He highly doubted a majority of dwarves would rebuke the epithet if it was freely offered to them. “Though I suspect there are worse names to be called.”

Fil’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. “Are you out of your mind? It is an insult, nothing less! Even one with no knowledge of dwarven culture could see it.”

Bilbo and Thorin shared a look, and the hobbit was relieved to see that the dwarf seemed as confused as he felt. “What are you… Fili, I don’t think we are even talking about the same thing.”

“Is this not about you going by the name of Bed-Warmer Baggins in Erebor?” Fili asked just as his brother came to a stop next to his pony.

Oh. Right. Bilbo had forgotten all about that second, highly unsavory nickname.

He opened his mouth to reply but Kili beat him to it.

“Oh, I _hate_ that name!” Thorin’s youngest nephew growled. With his dark hair in disarray and his tunic clinging to his body, he looked like a wild cat after a downpour. “One evening, I heard someone call you that after you passed down the Main Hall to your chambers. Punched two of his teeth right out of his filthy mouth and broke his nose.”

“Kili! You know better than to pick up fights! And you,” Bilbo added when he saw Fili’s smirk and nod of approval, “should know better than to condone such a behavior. Thorin, tell them.”

“Bilbo is right. This is not how matters such as these should be handled.”

“There.”

“Next time, bring me the scum so I can cut out his tongue,” Thorin growled.

“Wha- Thorin, no!”

“Is somebody talkin’ about cutting tongues out?” Dwalin grunted as he reached them. The tattooed dwarf’s clothing was only soaked up to his belt, being the tallest of them all. “Is it too late to participate?”

“Nobody is cutting anyone’s tongue,” Bilbo groaned, bringing his right hand up to rub his temple. He could feel the first signs of a massive headache coming on.

“A shame, that, it’s quite fun. Last time was s’long ago, too.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint but… Wait, wait, you mean you have actually _already_ cut somebody’s tongue out?” Bilbo sputtered, a bit spooked and green around the mouth.

The dwarven warrior merely shrugged as if they were discussing perfectly respectable habits. “Aye. Some lads are just better off without ‘em, anyway. Last one I snatched had been oglin’ Lady Dís all afternoon and tellin’ his pals all kinds of foul things he wanted to do to her. Sliced that Man filth’s lapper nice and quick ‘ven before Thorin asked me to.”

Bilbo turned to gape at his suitor, who didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish and met his gaze head-on. “This… this is barbaric! You cannot just mutilate people to sort out problems!” he thundered, miffed at the knowledge that the dwarves he adored resorted to such ugly methods of torture and a wee bit angered that even Thorin had at one point been involved in those. “This is not how you go around earning respect!”

“Are you saying that people should be allowed to say the foulest things and get away with it?” the King said evenly, although the glint of annoyance in his eyes was not lost on Bilbo. “That they should be left alone while they spread disgusting rumors and inspire mistrust in the hearts of others?”

“I am not saying that, stop putting words in my mouth,” the shireling snapped. He was getting really tired of Thorin’s assumptions. “I understand you dwarves have customs and traditions, but that is extreme.”

“There are worse punishments that can be dealt,” the dwarf replied simply.

“Seriously, Thorin? Is that really how you wish to rule Erebor? By cutting off the tongues of those who speak ill of you or your kin?”

“Whose tongue are we cutting?” Gloin asked cheerfully as he neared the small group with Bofur and Bombur close behind him. “I’ll sharpen my knife!”

Too much. This was too much.

The small unpleasant pangs that had been buzzing around Bilbo’s temple bloomed into full-fledged pounding and the hobbit snarled. “Nobody’s having their tongue cut! Not today, not here, not ever!” Bilbo shouted, so loud that birds actually stopped chirping for a few moments and every single pair of dwarven eyes narrowed in on him.

Without so much as a ‘by your leave’, Bilbo snagged Snowball’s reins from Dwalin’s hand. The anger from his recent outburst granted him the strength to hoist himself up in his saddle on his forst try – and a relief that was, for he wasn’t sure his credibility would survive his falling flat on his backside or bouncing repeatedly like a fool in an attempt to climb on his mount’s back.

Funny, really, how exchanging a few soft words with Thorin had escalated into such a fierce quarrel. But the fire burning low in Bilbo’s belly wouldn’t be tamed.

“I’ve had it with you Dwarves doing unspeakable things and acting as though they are completely normal and civilized! I swear, sometimes you can be worse than-than… than Orcs!”

Unwilling to hang around and see just what kind of reaction his last comment stirred amongst the company, Bilbo pressed both heels into Snowball’s flanks and sent the pony into a gallop in direction of Beorn’s enormous house. Each fall of the beast’s hooves against the ground sent another spike of pain through Bilbo’s skull, but he found he didn’t care. His only priority was to get as far away from the dwarves as he could. He had seen enough of them for the day and he wouldn’t terribly mind to have a few hours to himself, away from that reckless, tongue-cutting bunch.

His eyes following Bilbo’s figure as it bounced slightly atop his pony, Fili laid a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “I dare say there won’t be any Bed-Warming in store for you tonight, Uncle.”

The dark glare he was graced with could have sent even Azog the Defiler scuttling back to his mother’s skirts.

 

 


	9. A Night at Beorn's

 

For what he hoped would be the last time, Bilbo decided that he didn’t give a goblin’s arse where Thorin was and closed his eyes for what ought to be his fourth attempt at sleep.

His Grumpiness had been a royal pain in the arse all evening, after all, he didn’t deserve to have someone worrying after him. Especially when Beorn had been such a fine, polite host to the small company.

The skin-changer had welcomed them at his gate with open furry arms, as though he had been expecting them. Save for a few additional scars, he looked the same as he did when Bilbo last saw of him. In spite of his tremendous height and a bulk fit to put even a cave troll to shame, the bear of a man had plucked Bilbo from his pony as gently as he would a fragile flower. The hobbit had accepted the following hug with a laugh, burying his head into Beorn’s chest pelt as the skin-changer deplored that he could feel his bunny’s bones through his clothing. Fingers as large as the shireling’s hand had poked Bilbo’s stomach, tickling his tummy and drawing giggles from him.

In retrospect, Bilbo admitted that he had lingered in Beorn’s embrace maybe a tad longer than he should have. But he had been weary and tired and altogether happy for the opportunity to get some rest, and after all, he was just sharing a hug with a friend. Nothing worth the scorching glare he had received from Thorin when the dwarf had ridden through the wooden gate.

As the day progressed and the ponies were left free to feast on Beorn’s pastures, the dark look had morphed into something close to Thorin’s brooding face from when they had been on the quest. He hadn’t followed as Bilbo, Fili and Kili accompanied Beorn to the garden to gather honeycombs from the beehives. Probably off to sulk or care for Orcrist, or both at the same time. Bilbo hadn’t cared; let the mighty dwarven King act like a petulant child, he wasn’t about to go and apologize for finding tongue-cutting barbaric and distasteful.

Thorin wasn’t sighted until much later in the evening, when they all gathered around Beorn’s oversized table for dinner.

As expected, no meat was found on anyone’s plate that night, but the impressive variety of food presented to them had more than made up for it. Eggs, nuts, berries, fruit were dispatched in bowls and placed all around the table in-between golden loaves of bread and large jars of honey. Towering over them all in the middle of the table, a wooden pitcher – at least the size and width of Bilbo’s body – reigned supreme over the dishes and distributed glorious mead whenever Beorn’s hand tilted it.

And tilt it the bear did, until the dwarves’ cheeks were rosy and every sentence prompted a laugh from Bofur. Bilbo had indulged in the amber liquid himself, but had been more interested in the juicy pears and honeyed bread than anything else. He had only stopped wolfing it down – etiquette be damned – every once in a while, for a breath or to bat Beorn’s oversized hands away whenever the bear tried to pat the hobbit’s belly.

Thorin had seated himself on the other side of the table, between Dwalin and Gloin. He hadn’t eaten a lot, not as much as everyone else at any rate, and had kept his nose in his tankard most of the evening so he wouldn’t take part in any conversation. Bilbo had been under the impression that the King was avoiding crossing eyes with him, with the exception of an annoyed glance whenever Beorn touched him.

A plague on the stubbornness of Dwarves.

The dark-haired dwarf had been the only one unable to change into dry clothing, since he had only brought the set he had on his back. It had been dry for dinner, though, which made Bilbo think that Thorin had spent the remainder of the afternoon lying down on the grass under the sun. Alone.

That had been Bilbo’s last thought for Thorin before he decided to enjoy the evening and the hearty meal Beorn’s servants had graciously put together for the small company. And he had chosen the perfect seat to do so, wedged between Fili and Kili on a bench so high it left his feet dangling over the floor.

The brothers had spent the entire evening stuffing food in their mouths and downing enough mead that Bilbo feared Beorn’s roof would not withstand the tremendous snoring that would take place in the night. In-between bouts of laughter, they would nudge Bilbo or wrap a friendly arm around his smaller shoulders, calling him ‘Dragonriddler’ just to make him huff. Both princes had received copious swats over the course of the evening, albeit half-hearted ones, as the hobbit wasn’t really angry at them.

Who could, really, when a single glance at the scars marring the young dwarves’ faces was enough to realize how close they had once come to join Mahal in his Halls of Waiting?

Bilbo’s small outburst on the riverbank had seemingly been put aside, as nobody brought it up or even looked cross with him – that is, except Thorin, of course. Whether they had all blamed it on his exhaustion or it had fled their minds, Bilbo didn’t know, but he had been glad. He was aware that there was a gap between dwarven and hobbit cultures. No, not a gap, more of a Smaug-sized pit with fire and spikes awaiting those who tried to cross it.

Building a bridge over that pit would take centuries and skills that Bilbo didn’t possess. Nor did he wish to, either; he was not so foolish as to pretend that he could bring together two worlds that were as far apart from one another as can be. Dragonriddler, they may call him, but he was just a hobbit. Doomed to accept that certain dwarven proclivities could not be swayed, and that was it.

Even though he might get sick just thinking about some of those.

They had delighted Beorn with tales of their short journey well into the night, until there was nothing left to say. The skin-changer’s booming laugh had shaken the walls when Bofur had quipped that he had no dry smallclothes left from their days riding under the rain; and the bear-like growl that had rumbled up his throat at the mention of the spider’s lair had sent prickles down Bilbo’s spine. A good thing, that they could count Beorn amongst their friends.

Then there had been songs, lots of them, while Fili and Kili danced around the near-empty table. The princes had sauntered over tankards and polished off jars, passing in turns their uncle’s disapproving gaze and Beorn’s toothy grin. Bilbo had found himself clapping along with the other dwarves, his stomach sated and a pleasant buzz overruling his mind, occasionally blurting out lyrics whenever a familiar tune came up.

A merry gathering, indeed.

When there were no more songs left in the list and the company’s exhaustion made itself known again, Beorn had ushered them all to the living room – the stables, actually – where blankets had been thrown about on straw to form a dozen nests, complete with pillows and wool covers. Everyone had gratefully sunk into the makeshift beds with delighted sighs, revelling in the softness of blankets against their worn muscles.

Bilbo had not been any different, and claimed a nest as his own after he had properly thanked Beorn. With one ear, he had heard the skin-changer offering his room to Thorin in regard to his kingly status, but the dwarf had declined as politely as could be expected – meaning not a lot – before stepping out of the stables.

That had been a little over two hours ago, before Dwalin and the brothers began a snoring contest. And Thorin had yet to show himself.

Bilbo sighed and rolled over on his back to stare at the wooden beams supporting the roof. There was no way around it; he would not rest at ease until the insufferable dwarf was by his side or, at the very least, within sighting range.

For the love of everything that was green, it was unfair! Why was he plagued with such worries while he had clearly done nothing wrong? Alright, so, maybe he had overreacted and called the whole dwarven race a barbaric lot. And maybe he had compared Thorin and his kin to Orcs. But they had been words, harmless, hasty words! Hardly worth the fit Thorin was throwing.

Somewhere to Bilbo’s right, Kili’s snores gave way to an exasperated groan when Fili kicked his younger brother in his sleep. With a half-muffled curse, Kili rolled away from the slumbering firstborn and resumed sleeping without delay. Further in the back, Gloin and Bofur were snoozing the night away from the depths of their warm cocoons, seemingly unbothered by the proximity of Dwalin’s bear-like snoring. Bombur, however, could not be found in the weakly-lit sleeping area and had probably fallen asleep somewhere Bilbo’s eyes couldn’t see.

Everybody was catching up on sleep, and if he didn’t do the same, the next day would find him nodding off in his saddle. And that was a five feet drop he would much rather avoid, thank you.

Bilbo rolled onto his side in the semi-darkness and closed his eyes firmly, vowing to open them only when the lights of dawn would sting them. He tugged his blanket up to his chin and burrowed further into the straw mattress, willing his mind to yield and succumb to the land of dreams.

He had almost succeeded, too, when something landed hard on the straw behind him and shattered his efforts. Bilbo turned his head to glance over his shoulder when the lump exhaled loudly and moved to bury itself between the hobbit’s shoulder blades.

Not something, then, rather someone. Someone with a mop of long dark hair and a distinctive, familiar musk. Turned out Thorin had gotten tired of brooding all alone, in the end.

“And to what do I owe the honor?” Bilbo asked quietly. There was no bite in his words, no snarky undertone, as he wasn’t inclined to push Thorin away now that the dwarf had taken a step toward him. If anything, he felt a bit amused.

“I’m an idiot,” came the drowsy reply, half-muffled from Thorin’s mouth being pressed into Bilbo’s back.

“We had already figured out that much, but please, do go on.” Bilbo’s heart had already forgiven his suitor, but that didn’t mind he couldn’t play around a tad.

A groan, and Thorin twisted his head up to rest his bearded chin on the side of Bilbo’s neck. His breath smelt of mead and pipe-weed, and the hobbit wagered Thorin had been out in the garden smoking his pipe all this time.

“I should not have ignored you tonight.” The words were husky and made hoarse from weariness, and Bilbo could not help the pleasurable tinge that warmed his belly when hot air bathed his ear. “It was uncalled for and I should not hold onto trifling things while you already have sacrificed so much in regard to our cause. You have accomplished deeds so great that I often forget you are of peaceful folk.” Rough and a bit sloppy, whiskered lips were moving against Bilbo’s nape on the soft patch of skin under his ear. If the hobbit had had any resentment remaining toward the dwarf, it was gone now. “It is time I abide with some of your beliefs in return.”

“No tongue-cutting, then?”

“No tongue-cutting,” Thorin promised softly, pressing an apologetic kiss at the back of Bilbo’s neck amidst the tiny curls there and drawing a satisfied sigh from his burglar. Emboldened, and certainly relieved by the knowledge that there was no bad blood between them, Thorin snaked a hand under the blanket to lay it on Bilbo’s hip. “Unless I deem it extremely necessary,” he added after a small pause.

Bilbo shook his head with a small smile, scooting backward until he could feel the length of Thorin’s solid body against his own, softer one. “No tongue-cutting, no matter the situation,” the hobbit said, his voice almost turning into a purr when Thorin’s hand kneaded his hipbone lazily.

“Never?”

“Never.”

“What if people offend you or insult you?”

“I’ll ignore them, simple as that.”

“And if they try to harm you? May I at least break arms, then?”

“Nope.”

“Fingers?”

“Nope. Good gracious, Thorin, you make it sound like you’ll have the whole of your kin to fight on a daily basis!” Bilbo chuckled under his breath, careful not to let his voice reach a volume that might stir their companions from their well-deserved sleep.

“I won’t, but it never hurts to stand prepared,” the dwarf mumbled, nuzzling into Bilbo’s soft hair. “You are my most prized treasure, Bilbo. Should worse come to worse, I would protect you from the entire world. And if to do so I have to cut thousands of tongues and shatter hundreds of bones, then so be it.”

The passionate – though a bit drowsy – words awoke butterflies in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. By all means, he ought to feel revolted, but the declaration brought forth a feeling of safety like Bilbo had never known before. With Thorin keeping watch over him, no harm would ever come his way.

“Well, that’s… romantic, I guess. In some weird, dwarven way.” Bilbo took a second to hum appreciatively when Thorin pressed a lopsided kiss to his shoulder. “Then again, you are a weird, dwarven suitor so… nothing unexpected here.”

Bilbo gasped when the hand on his hip suddenly crept up to tickle his unprotected side through his undershirt. “Unfair!” he gasped in-between giggles. “Unfair! Thorin, stop that, we’ll wake the others!”

“Correction, âzyungel. _You_ will wake the others.”

Bilbo kept squirming and pleading with Thorin, only to have the dwarf nipping at the sensitive flesh of his neck while his merciless fingers pursued their assault. Even if his breath hadn’t been heavy with mead, Bilbo would still have figured out that the King was a bit tipsy, otherwise he would never have lavished this kind of attention on his intended in a room where they could easily be seen.

By the time Thorin decided to stop tormenting his hobbit, his hand had slipped under Bilbo’s undershirt to graze naked skin. There was something possessive about the way the fingers mapped the hairless belly, stopping here and there for a gentle squeeze or a soft caress.

When the digits travelled across Bilbo’s stomach, they faltered. “Do you still hurt?” Thorin rasped out, blunt fingernails hovering over his intended’s midsection.

Even with a few Beorn-sized tankards under the belt, the dwarf hadn’t forgotten about the frightening bruise the spider’s sting had left on Bilbo’s body.

“Not much,” the hobbit replied quietly. “I can breathe normally now, and there’s almost no strain at all when I move around. Much more acceptable than death by spider venom, in any case.”

“Indeed.”

Slowly, tentatively, Thorin’s fingers began to draw patterns on Bilbo’s stomach where he knew the fist-sized bruise to be. It was as if the dwarf was trying to soothe away any remaining pain. The touch brought a smile to Bilbo’s lips and he stretched his legs, wiggling his toes as he took in the warmth and comfort of his King.

Oh, this dwarf could be an insufferable, oafish lump of a brutal insensitiveness. He had a tendency to brood and snarl and didn’t take well to people going against his beliefs. But he was steadfast and unwavering in his loyalty to his kin and, now, to Bilbo as well. Five feet and three inches of fierce devotion and enough passion to make a hobbit happy ten lifetimes over.

Plus the cuddling was amazing.

Thorin’s hand had apparently grown tired of sticking close to Bilbo’s stomach and was set on exploring new territories. First it skimmed over ribs and drew a few short gasps from the hobbit who feared tickling was back on Thorin’s mind, only to sigh in relief when the fingers merely drew uncertain patterns on his chest.

Bilbo found himself slowly dozing off from the gentle ministrations. He would have fallen asleep, too, if Thorin’s hand hadn’t suddenly abandoned his chest to trail down the length of his upper body. It strayed low, past his bellybutton, to stroke the soft line of hair there.

The contact, though light, caused Bilbo’s eyes to fly open and his mind to jerk fully awake. “Thorin?” he asked quietly.

“Hm?”

“What, er… what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” came the reply, and if Bilbo didn’t know better, he would have deemed it a tad sluggish.

“Oh. Good.”

The fingers remained where they were, gently tangling themselves in peach-soft fuzz and Bilbo allowed his body to relax. It wasn’t unpleasant by any standard, no, merely startling, so with the surprise wearing away the hobbit began to drift off anew.

Only to almost bite his tongue when Thorin’s fingers teased – _teased!_ – at the waistband of his pants.

“Thorin!” he hissed over his shoulder, almost smashing his nose with the dwarf’s larger one. “Stop this.”

“You are not enjoying this?”

“No! I mean, yes I do, but… it’s not… we are…” Bilbo ground his teeth to retain control over his voice. “We are not alone, Thorin!”

A little snort. “What of it? Everybody is sleeping. I don’t think they will wake up any time soon.”

“I’m not taking any chance. Discipline your paws or keep them to yourself.”

A tad harsh, maybe, but at least Thorin’s hand stilled. “You were the one to request more physical interaction between the two of us. I thought it would please you.”

Oh, it did. Very much. Too much, even, and Bilbo knew that if he let Thorin go any further down his body there was no guaranty that his control would remain within his grasp. Nor his voice, for that matter. As much as Bilbo liked where this was heading, he wasn’t particularly thrilled by the possibility of the other dwarves being awoken by noises he might make. He prayed to Eru that none of them – especially Fili and Kili – had already been pulled from their sleep and were spying on the couple with their enhanced dwarven sight. A frightening perspective, but it would certainly explain why there was a lot less snoring going around than earlier.

Bilbo rolled over so he could face Thorin and searched for his suitor’s eyes in the semi-darkness. “It pleases me, I assure you,” he whispered, bringing one hand up to cup the dwarf’s bearded cheek. Up this close, the heavy scent of mead was even more present. “I would gladly have you follow this line of thought until dawn comes to us.”

“Then why-”

“As I’ve said, we are not alone,” Bilbo interrupted gently, his thumb tracing a path from Thorin’s nose to his cheekbone, “and you have had a few tankards too much, otherwise you wouldn’t behave like this.”

“I am not inebriated,” the dwarf grunted.

_And I’m the Goblin King’s long lost sister._ “Nevertheless, when I expressed my wishes for more ‘physical interaction’, as you so poetically put it, I had a more relaxing and intimate setting in mind. It didn’t include being groped in the dark three feet from our companions after two days of sustained travel.” And yes, you _are_ inebriated, Bilbo almost added.

But his point had gotten across, for Thorin’s hand slid off completely.

“You seemed to have no such qualms about being touched in front of the whole company all evening,” the dwarf growled lowly.

Bilbo was left to blink quite stupidly. “I may have indulged in some mead as well, but I think I would remember you doing such a thing. As far as I know, you have been sulking all evening.”

“Not me. The skin-changer.”

Bilbo frowned for but a second before it all came clicking into place. The brooding, the fierce glaring at the gate or at dinner whenever Beorn had tried to pat Bilbo’s belly. The warm presence of Thorin’s hand on that very same belly, practically etching ‘mine’ on the hobbit’s skin with every caress.

The matter of tongue-cutting hadn’t been the only thing on the dwarf’s mind.

“Sweet Yavanna, Thorin, could it be… that you are jealous?”

Only silence met his question, and that was enough. Against his better will, Bilbo’s lips stretched into a grin and a few giggles escaped him. Thorin Oakenshield, mighty King of Erebor, jealous of a bear living in the woods with a bunch of animals. Oh that was rich.

“It gladdens my heart,” the dwarf drawled, suddenly much more sober, “that you find my feelings so entertaining. And to know that they are cause for such laughter is a great joy. Now, I believe I have a few hours of rest to catch up on. A good night, Master Baggins.”

Before Bilbo could do anything to stop it, Thorin clumsily climbed back to his feet and set out to claim another spot to spend the night. He had sounded hurt and dejected. While Bilbo was always one to scoff at Thorin’s dramatics, even he had to admit that he shouldn’t have mocked the King.

_Thought after taunting a live dragon, I would have learned to keep my mouth in check._

“Thorin, come back,” he called quietly. “You know I wasn’t laughing at you.”

Whether the dwarf heard him or not, it mattered little, for Thorin never turned around. Bilbo sighed and kicked his blanket away; he would be thrice damned before he let this escalate into another quarrel.

Many times did Thorin almost step on a slumbering dwarf, causing Bilbo’s breath to catch in his throat, but never once did the hobbit cry out a warning. It would be easier to explain why Thorin was meandering about stepping on fingers than to say why Bilbo was shouting at uncivilized hours.

Eventually, the King deemed the nest of blankets right next to his nephews worthy of his attention and all but collapsed upon it. The sudden drop and resulting thud had Kili’s sleeping form jerking awake and the young dwarf looked up.

“Sumthin wong?” he slurred, half his brain still too busy dreaming to form proper sentences.

“Your uncle is a bit out of sorts tonight,” Bilbo replied quietly, stopping by Kili to pat the lad’s unruly hair. “I’ll deal with him. You go back to sleep.”

“G’night.”

Bilbo bit back a chuckle when the young prince’s head hit his pillow and he began snoring once more. On Kili’s left side, Fili was still asleep, undisturbed by the exchange.

The hobbit regretfully tore his attention from the brothers to focus on the task at hand; namely, their uncle.

Bilbo tiptoed to where Thorin was currently lying on his side facing away, trying without success to kick his heavy boots off. Moonlight streaming in through the cracks in the shutters highlighted bits of straw in the dwarf’s dark mane; it would be a pain to remove after a whole night of shuffling.

“You are quite possibly the silliest dwarf to have ever strolled across Middle-Earth,” Bilbo huffed as he crouched down by Thorin’s legs to tug the steel-capped boots off. Cursed things, he didn’t know why Dwarves bothered with them. “Beorn? And me? Did you even stop to think about it?”

Thorin shrugged. “You hugged him for a long time, at the gate,” he said gruffly, as though even he thought this was a lame reply.

“So I did, but he is a friend. Should Gandalf walk past, I would certainly hug him just as hard. Yet I don’t think you would hunt the poor old wizard down if I did.”

Bilbo expected a comment along the lines that Gandalf was anything but a ‘poor old wizard’ but Thorin was set on pouring out the contents of his heavy heart.

“Then at dinner, his eyes never left you, I saw it. They were wild and invasive.”

“I am the only hobbit Beorn has ever seen,” Bilbo explained as the first boot slid away and he got started on the other one. “To him, I’m just another small animal to look after. I’m sure he meant nothing by it.”

“And the way he touched you… I almost felt sick. Those careless fingers, prodding, digging into places that are not his to touch.” By then, Thorin was practically rambling. It probably didn’t matter whether or not Bilbo was still here to listen to the slightly drunk King. “Upsetting a bruised stomach that is mine to look after. Disrespecting a belly that is mine to revere. Only I should be allowed to lay hands on you like this, only I! He had no right!”

“Shh shh!” Bilbo hastily cast the second boot aside and scooted until he was leaning over Thorin’s body, his lips finding the dwarf’s cheek with practiced ease. The shireling tried to keep his wits about him; even laced with possessiveness, Thorin’s words had the strangest effect on his mind and body. “Shh, beloved, you are right. What Beorn did was rude and not terribly pleasant.”

“Then why did you not reject him, as you did me?”

Oh, sweet Eru. Why did Thorin had to sound so hurt?

“I would never reject you, sweetheart,” Bilbo whispered, sliding fingers in Thorin’s hair. The endearment felt weird and foreign on his tongue, but it seemed to ease some tension from the dwarf’s shoulders. There was a good chance that Thorin wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway. “Tonight is just not the good night. As for Beorn, well, it might have escaped your notice but he is the size of a small house.”

“What of it?”

“Dearest, have you ever played with a kitten? No matter how much it claws and hisses at you, you’ll just keep poking its belly because you love the way it wriggles and tries to run away. That is just what I am to Beorn, a helpless kitten unable to threaten him into leaving it alone.”

Thorin stayed silent as he mulled over what Bilbo said – or at least, the hobbit hoped that he did. “I have seen you stand up to foes bigger than he is,” he said finally, a bit of puzzlement marring his speech.

“Well, I guess I didn’t particularly care to be polite with mountain trolls,” Bilbo chuckled. “But Beorn had the good grace to invite us for dinner, not _as_ dinner, so I didn’t want to offend him. You have nothing to worry about, though. I would pick your big paws over his even if you dragged me through a thousand rivers.”

Bilbo’s aim was, as it often did when he fought with words, perfect. Thorin’s shoulders shook with repressed chuckles, and it wasn’t long before the dwarf rolled onto his back to look up at his intended. The fond gaze – albeit a bit glazed over – coupled with the straw-speckled beard achieved to melt Bilbo’s heart.

The hobbit willingly sank into Thorin’s arms when he opened them. Laying his cheek on the dwarf’s sturdy chest, Bilbo made himself as comfortable as possible. He brought one foot to rest between Thorin’s sock-covered ones and sighed when a somewhat clumsy kiss was pressed into his hair.

“I’m sorry. Again,” the King mumbled.

“It’s alright. I guess I would object to other people touching you as well,” Bilbo soothed, nuzzling into his suitor’s thick neck. “You are just less subtle about it than I would be.”

“What would you do?” Thorin asked, one big hand coming up to rest between Bilbo’s shoulder blades and rubbing soft circles there.

“If someone were to touch you in a way that I don’t like? Well… I don’t know. If something like this happens in the Shire, I will probably track the culprit down, sneak into their home and shave their feet or cut their hair while they sleep. If I’m really mad I might even throw in a pair of socks as well.”

The sudden jerk of the body underneath his startled Bilbo.

“You would cut someone’s hair, for an ill-placed touch? You are certainly crueller than I expected,” Thorin said quietly. “I thought feet hair was sacred to Hobbits.”

“Hair grows back. It would make for a few embarrassing days, hardly the permanent damage sustained by the loss of a _tongue_ , for example.” The statement was punctuated with a jab to Thorin’s unprotected ribs, which drew a satisfying gasp from the larger male.

“Could you just leave this be and let me sleep?” came the drowsy question.

“Gladly.” Bilbo wriggled back into his original sleeping position and closed his eyes, the sound of Thorin’s strong heart pumping relentlessly in his ear luring him to sleep. “Rest well, beloved. And if Beorn tries to poke me in the morning, I promise to tell him that he might find himself a few fingers short, courtesy of my faithful dwarven suitor. Will that be alright?” No answer. “Thorin?”

The chin Bilbo was tucked under moved, but in lieu of a reply, only light snoring escaped the dwarf’s mouth.

The hobbit chuckled. His last worry before he joined his King in the realms of sleep was that he would wake up with his hair covered in dwarf slobber.

 

* * *

 

 

When Fili and Kili arrived at the breakfast table that morning, they were met with the very peculiar sight of their uncle sitting with his head buried in his hands, seated so close to Bilbo that their sides were touching from hip to shoulder. The hobbit was happily munching on honey-spread toast, his large feet swinging back and forth under the bench with appreciation. Every now and then, Bilbo would glance at Thorin and offer him a piece of toast, only to have the dwarf groan and burrow his face further in his palms.

Their usually stoic uncle only emerged when Beorn passed by the table carrying enough wood to have a nice fire going in the oversized fireplace – and probably have enough left to build a small shed, as well.

What the skin-changer had done to warrant the warning glare Thorin sent his way, neither brother had the faintest idea.

 

 

 

 


	10. Guests in Rivendell

 

Beorn gave them enough honeycakes to feed a small army – or the average hobbit family – for a week. So much in fact that the golden treats kept escaping their packs and pockets to roll about on the ground. It wasn’t until they were well past the Carrock that they had eaten enough of the cakes for their bags to remain tame. In fact, they didn’t even run out of the baked goods until they were on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

Come to think of it, the Mountains were not that unpleasant to cross on pony back, when there were no goblins or stone giants to deal with. With summer settling in, the passes were free of snow save for a few dirty heaps here and there, leaving paths clearly visible. Although Bilbo had been uneasy when they first entered the mountain range – the Old Ford had them taking the Mountains of Mist on with a dark tunnel that they had spent a whole day riding through with only torches to light their way, much to the hobbit’s angst – he had changed his mind with the first patch of Snowdon Lilies he had laid eyes upon.

The white flowers adorned the sides of the road, fully bloomed and shining under the bright June Sun. Bilbo wished that they had more time before them, but unfortunately he knew that they didn’t have any to spare. He settled for giving the white petals longing looks from his saddle, wondering if maybe Lord Elrond had a book about the mountain range’s flora that he would be willing to lend.

As nice a change from their last outing in the Misty Mountains as it was, Bilbo felt relieved when the high peaks of dark rock parted for a last small pass on their fifth day there. Rock wasn’t nearly as comfortable as grass when it came down to sleeping outdoors, and the hobbit cared little for the other dwarves’ reassurances; there _might_ be goblins lurking around, even though they had been decimated months before and the company was miles south from Goblin Town.

“Sweet Yavanna, green at long last!” Bilbo exclaimed when he discovered that they were only one steep, rocky slope away from grass hills and a tempting , lazy stream. True, it was nothing like the meadows of the Shire, but it already smelt like home. “I was getting tired of hard stone.”

“I thought you liked mountains,” Kíli pouted. “What is wrong with a little rock?”

“Nothing. With days on end of cliffs so high I can hardly see the sky? Well…”

“You are being overly dramatic.”

“We would best not tarry,” Thorin interjected when he rode past them. “By the note we have received back from Rivendell, Lord Elrond is expecting us tonight. We have until sundown to find the Hidden Valley.”

“Then you should probably let me lead, Uncle,” Fíli said innocently, but the teasing smirk on his face was hard to miss. “Lest we find ourselves in Eregion before we know it.”

Thorin frowned but had the good grace to stand aside. “By all means,” he grumbled, following his nephew with his eyes when the golden-haired youth passed him by.

“Ye should not let him talk to ye like that,” Dwalin commented as he stationed his pony next to Thorin’s. “Next thing ye know, he’ll be walkin’ right over ye back in Erebor.”

“Nay,” the King reassured his long-time friend, “he won’t. On this trip I am not his King. A few liberties cannot hurt.”

“Aye, ye remember that when he’s trippin’ you in front of the Council or puttin’ nails on your throne as a joke. Ye’ll be sorry then,” the tattooed warrior said gruffly, plucking dried patches of dirt from his mount’s mane and grinding them to dust.

“I fail to see how my nephew’s behavior is any concern of yours.”

“Captain of the Guard, ‘ere, whatever may have people doubtin’ you is a concern of mine.”

Thorin shook his head with a small smile. “My friend, this time you worry too much. Now come, I do not intend to be late for supper with the elves. Even if it’s just leaves and dried fruit that awaits us on the table.”

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, they didn’t even have to find the Hidden Valley, for it came to them as soon as they reached the first green hill.

The two riders were coming straight for the company, as though they had spotted them from afar, their white horses two growing spots in the surrounding greenery. When they were close enough, Bilbo was able to make out a few distinctive features about the newcomers that branded them as envoys from Rivendell.

Both elves possessed long, dark hair tied off in an elegant ponytail and held in place by silver clasps. They were clad in red-tinted armor that would probably be more out of place on a battlefield than in a mathom gallery, such fine masterpieces of craftsmanship they were. A nice match to the flawless elven features on the riders’ faces who, now that Bilbo could see them clearly, were undoubtedly related for they held a great resemblance to one another.

Fíli called for a halt just as the two elves reached them. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, Thorin’s pony stepped closer to Bilbo’s until the King’s boot brushed one lightly furred foot. Some apprehensions were hard to dismiss.

“Greetings,” one of the riders spoke up, a silver circlet holding his long hair back as his head dipped into a respectful nod. “My name is Elladan, and this is my brother, Elrohir. We would be honored to lead you to Imladris.”

Fíli shifted a bit in his saddle, but to his credit, he never even glanced back at his uncle for support and managed a small smile. “Very well, we are most obliged. I shall let you take the lead then.”

Both elves shared a strange look, to which the one called Elrohir gave a small shrug. Bilbo had seen that kind of brotherly exchange before, whenever Thorin was in a foul mood and snarled at his nephews for no apparent reason. Clearly, their elven guides were puzzled about something; but they made no mention of it and just turned their horses around to ride on either side of Fíli.

As they rode around hills and over small bridges, Elladan and Elrohir made polite inquiries about Erebor’s recovery, to which Fíli answered to the best of his abilities and with all of his youth’s cheerfulness and hope. Dís’ eldest son was taking his mission as temporary leader to heart, Bilbo thought with pride, and a side glance in Thorin’s direction revealed that the dwarven King was probably thinking along those lines as well.

Topics came and went but their elven guides were particularly interested in the Battle of Five Armies, and listened to Fíli’s retelling of the fight with rapt attention. Orc-slaying, Bilbo figured, had the peculiar tendency to bring races closer. Even Elves and Dwarves, apparently.

“I have to say, I am surprised,” Elladan said after Fíli was done narrating. Or was it Elrohir? They were as impossible to tell apart as the raven brothers currently preening their feathers on the rump of Dwalin’s mount.

“How so?” Fíli asked.

“Well, truly, I did not expect you to be so…” The elf’s voice trailed off, as though he was searching for words. It struck Bilbo as odd; he had always thought elves only spoke if they had complete sentences and their repercussions carefully etched and wedged in mind.

Apparently the second brother had no such trouble.

“So polite,” the other elf completed. “With some sort of manners.”

“Elrohir!”

“It is true. We were warned that you might not be the most pleasant interlocutor to have walked across Arda.” Elrohir’s piercing gaze took in Fíli’s whole body. “I admit to possessing little knowledge about dwarven aging and the changes it entails, but you look surprisingly young for someone of your status.”

“Elrohir! Have you no shame?” Elladan almost hissed at his brother.

“I suppose Dwarves can be considered a bit rough and ill-mannered in comparison to Elves,” Fíli said calmly in spite of the frown on his features. Bilbo was impressed; Thorin would have long since lashed out at the offending elves. “But I am most certainly not too young for my status. When my forefather Dáin I was slain by cold drakes in the Grey Mountains, he left kingship to his forty-seven year-old son, Thrór. He was little more than a child at that age, and yet he became one of the most powerful kings of the line of Durin.”

Elrohir seemed ready to add something but Elladan beat him to it. “My brother’s tongue is often quicker than his wits, but he meant no offense. Please accept our deepest apologies and let us speak of this no more.”

Fíli looked taken aback at all the deference that was being thrown his way, but he took it all in stride and nodded. “No offense taken. I don’t know much about elven culture myself, I am likely to misjudge and make mistakes as well.”

“That lad is more of a diplomat than ya’ll ever be,” Dwalin chuckled as he manoeuvred to ride next to Thorin. “And to elves, of all things! You sure you two are related?”

The comment only won him a dark glance and a grunt, but the tattooed warrior was far from impressed. He was right. Fíli had a way with words that Thorin had never been able to master completely, even after he had regained his position as the rightful King of Erebor. Bilbo had seen his suitor spend evenings writing speeches and hold countless rehearsals for them so he wouldn’t make a fool of himself in front of his people. Most of the time during his meetings with Elves or Men from Dale, Balin did the talking whenever it looked like a heated argument was about to break out.

Diplomacy was not Thorin’s forte, nor would it ever be.

The rest of the relatively short trip was spent in companionable silence, but an awed gasp pierced right through Bilbo’s veil of fatigue when they walked around one last rocky hill and laid eyes on Rivendell.

The Last Homely House was every bit as beautiful as he remembered it to be, and even more so. Overlooking the river Bruinen, the high walls and round towers of the elven architecture stood proud and steady as waterfalls cascaded behind them and sent a light mist in the afternoon air. In-between balconies and bridges, trees were supporting bright blossoms or had already shed them in favor of young fruit.

Bilbo bounced in his saddle and managed to snatch a few particularly ripe cherries from a low branch that he wasted no time in plopping into his mouth. The burst of flavor on his tongue drew a moan from the hobbit that earned him a strange look from Thorin and Dwalin.

“Didn’t know your burglar could make those noises,” the bald dwarf told his King.

“Neither did I, though I must say, I have come to discover that Hobbits are not the most discreet creatures, shows of stealth put aside.”

“You two keep this up, and I’m spitting the stones in your face,” Bilbo warned around his mouthful of fruit. “I’ve won every single conkers contest in the Shire for the past twenty years. My aim is impeccable.”

His threat went unheeded.

“Must be a hobbit trait to be vocal ‘bout everything you see or do,” Dwalin pursued, one hand scratching his beard. “Weather, scenery, flowers… I’ll bet he even talks when he’s sleepin’.”

“Aye, that he does. Sometimes.”

“Thorin, careful,” Bilbo growled.

“Even with his mouth full he can’t shut up. Now that’ll be quite the nuisance in the bedroom when he’s- Ow! Ow!” Dwalin yelped and brought a hand up to cover his eye, shielding it from more cherry stones.

Thorin only spared his friend a glance and chuckled. “Well, you cannot say you haven’t been warn- Bilbo, what was that for?” the dwarf grunted when his own eye was assaulted by yet another small projectile. “I was not being disrespectful.”

“You didn’t put a stop to this, which is just as bad.” Bilbo spat the last stone on a patch of dirt and ignored the glare he received from his suitor. “My nightly proclivities are nobody’s business but my own, and yours to some extent. Not up for discussion.”

“We meant nothing by it,” Thorin shrugged, reminding Bilbo strongly of Kíli after the young dwarf had made a particularly stupid comment. “And you have to admit that the idea of you talking in your sleep is amusing, on some level.”

“So are your little animal noises when you cling to me in the middle of the night, yet you don’t see me disclosing that tidbit around for everyone to hear.”

Bilbo nudged Snowball further down the road and hid a satisfied grin when he heard Dwalin’s loud guffaws. Served His Royal Gruffness well.

Elladan and Elrohir led the small company on a bridge and came to a stop on a very familiar ledge. There was no chance in this age that Bilbo would forget the day he had been quite unceremoniously shoved in the middle of thirteen enraged dwarves while Elves rode in circles around them, their eyes wide and full of contempt.

Atop a short flight of stairs, Lord Elrond was observing them. As flawless and elegant as always in his billowing red robes, the elf was bestowing a curious – and quite oddly puzzled – look upon his dwarven guests. Bilbo only had a few seconds to take shots at what had the elven lord confused before Elrond’s features turned into a serene expression and the Firstborn walked down the stairs to greet the company.

Elladan and Elrohir each gave a little respectful bow after they had dismounted. “We have successfully accomplished our mission. Lord Elrond, here is your honored guest, King Thorin Oakenshield,” Elladan announced with a small, yet proud smile as he gestured to Fíli with an elegant flourish.

Strangled gasps erupted from the travelling party and Elrond’s eyebrows shot skywards for a second before they reclaimed their rightful position over the elven eyes and an amused smile tugged at his lips.

“I see,” he drawled, deadpan, his gaze automatically trailing at the back of the company where Thorin was looking at the two guides with a stunned expression. Elrond gave the King a little nod of acknowledgment and brought his attention back to the younger elves. “I believe we had a little conversation last week on the matter of introductions, yes?”

Elladan and Elrohir shared a confused look and Bilbo had to bite his lower lip to keep from chuckling. Fili’s gaping mouth wasn’t helping matters.

“Yes,” Elladan answered with some hesitation.

“Good. Then I suppose that you have introduced yourselves properly, and gave enough time to your interlocutors for them to introduce themselves as well. Some kind of powerful, dark magic must be at work since the King Under the Mountain seems to have acquired a new body, much younger and fairer than the one he owned the last time he was my guest in Imladris.”

Elladan and Elrohir turned astonished eyes to Fíli, who was still frozen as if attacked by a cold drake in the dead of winter.

Elrond’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Or, and that explanation sounds like the most sensible one, you forewent introductions and just dragged our guests over hills and into the Hidden Valley.”

“Your hindsight is truly worthy of tales, Lord Elrond,” Thorin said as he nudged his pony to walk to the front of the small crowd. He ignored the young elves’ stares to look up at Elrond. “I am glad to see that your mind is still as sharp as your sword.”

The amused smile was back on Elrond’s features. “King Thorin Oakenshield. You were born a flatterer after all.” When the elven Lord turned to his young, flabbergasted kin, the smile gave way to a slight frown. “Elladan, Elrohir. Bring the horses and the ponies to the stables. You will unload them and feed them before dinner is ready. Do not be late this time.”

With mutters of agreements – and more than a stunned look thrown at Thorin and Fíli – the two elves patiently waited until everyone in the company had dismounted and quickly gathered reins to shepherd all mounts away and out of sight. Whispering and bickering in their mother tongue all the way.

Elrond watched them disappear with a shake of his head. “My apologies, King Thorin,” he told the dwarf. “Although they mean well, my sons are not always quite thorough, I am afraid.”

_His sons?_ Bilbo thought to himself as dwarves exchanged muffled comments all around him. _Well. I knew those eyes were familiar._

Thorin irked one questioning eyebrow. “Your sons?”

The unspoken inquiry only seemed to aggravate Elrond’s frown further. “Yes, my sons. By the Valar, have they at least told you their names?”

“Yes, they did,” Fíli said, shaken out of his stupor at last. “They told us their names and that they were sent to guide us to Rivendell.”

“And nothing more?” Elrond sighed and massaged his left temple when Fíli shook his head. “The Lady of Mercy lend me her tears, I have none left to weep over these two. Well, be that as it may, I am glad that you all arrived safely to my House.” The Lord racked his eyes over the cluster of short guests on his threshold, lingering a bit when he came across Bilbo’s gaze for a half-smile, before he spoke again. “Although to be truthful, I was expecting a much larger group to come riding through my gates. Were there… unforeseen difficulties on your journey?”

“We came across a few hindrances, yes, but the company before your eyes is the same that Erebor saw walking out of its gates several weeks ago,” Thorin supplied.

Elrond nodded. “Then I am relieved. You and your companions are welcome to stay in my House for as long as you please. This being said, bear in mind that I was only able to acquire ten casks of wine this year. I would suggest pacing yourselves if you intend to stay more than two nights.”

The row of chuckles that met his comment brought a twinkle to Elrond’s eyes and warmth spread inside Bilbo’s chest. A year prior, Thorin had been unable to form decent sentences when speaking to the elven Lord, or even say ‘elves’ without making it sound like the most disgusting curse word he knew.

Here was the dwarven King, being friendly – no, not quite friendly, rather civil… but that was nice as well – with someone he would have gladly called a pointy-eared, dirt-eating tree-humper last summer.

And to think, that some people still firmly denied the existence of miracles.

 

* * *

 

 

After they had been shown their rooms – individual rooms, which meant no kicking, no shuffling sounds and, praise Yavanna, no snoring! – Lord Elrond guided them to where the evening meal was being served, ignoring Thorin’s protests that they hardly looked decent enough for dinner and smelt even worse than that.

“I could hear your insides growl before you even came into my sight,” Elrond said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Do not try to pretend that you value hygiene over food at this very moment.”

This kind of perfectly-aimed statement even a King Under the Mountain could not counter, so Thorin kept quiet and begrudgingly allowed himself to be steered along to the dining hall, six dwarves and one ravenous hobbit on his heels.

Tables had been laid out on a rather large balcony overlooking the valley down below, where lights from the setting Sun were playing a game of shadows with the waterfalls and the trees. The scenery was familiar to Bilbo; he had had the chance to gaze upon it the last time they had been guests in the Hidden Valley. But his pack had been light, and his heart the furthest thing from it at that time. He was thrilled by this second chance to appreciate elven hospitality in far, far better circumstances.

Two long tables had been prepared near the middle of the balcony, bracketed between wooden benches overflowing with cushions. The way they were disposed suggested that they were meant to make sitting on the benches a comfortable affair, but Bilbo could take a hint. Rivendell was not used to hosting dwarven guests, consequently the tables were a bit too high.

Sweet Eru, the sheer amount of porcelain and crystal on those tables! Not to mention the silverware, dazzling enough to make even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins ditch the Shire and brave the Lone-Lands, for certain. Once more in his life, Bilbo felt awed by Elves’ appreciation of such finely-crafted items and honored that they allowed guests as rowdy as Dwarves – which they were, there was no denying that, as much as the hobbit was fond of his friends – to use them, were it just for one evening.

A quick count told Bilbo that the longest table could hold fifteen people and the other, much shorter one, eight. Clearly Elrond had expected the whole Company of old to come for dinner, the five untouched barrels of what could only be wine waiting patiently near the tables were proof enough.

A tall elf with slender features and dark, long hair held back by a bronze circlet approached and bowed to Elrond. Gandalf had known this elf, even called his name when they had first arrived in Imladris, starving, covered in troll snot and Eru knows what sort of vermin had been inside those dreadful bags the three giants had stuffed them in. Bilbo scrunched up his face as he searched his memories for the elvish name. Cindar? No. Lindar? Maybe, it did sound familiar. Oh no, wait, of course-

“Lindir,” Elrond greeted with a polite bow of his own. “Our guests have arrived.”

“Indeed they have,” Lindir replied, appraising the small company with careful eyes. It occurred to Bilbo that maybe the elf still had the memory of a dozen dwarven hairy backsides desecrating a fountain still burning holes in his mind. If that was the case, the Firstborn was doing a fine job concealing it. “Should we not wait until they are all here to start dinner?”

“It is done. Their travelling party possesses fewer members than expected.” Elrond gestured to the smaller table. “As such we will have no need of the second table. Could you please inform the kitchens?”

“Of course, Lord Elrond.” With another graceful bow and a respectful nod to Thorin, Lindir walked away and disappeared down a narrow staircase on one side of the balcony.

Elrond approached the long table and took a seat at one end of it, in a high-backed chair, encouraging his guests to follow his lead with one hand.

Which they did quite eagerly, as though they had already forgotten what dinner in the company of elves entailed on the matter of food. As etiquette dictated, Thorin sat down on Elrond’s right and shot Bilbo a pointed look that left no room for argument. The hobbit could only sigh and make himself comfortable on the bench next to the dwarven King, the velvet under his rear a welcome change from Snowball’s leather saddle.

One by one, in a remarkable show of discipline, the other dwarves claimed their own seats at the elven table, although admittedly none was willing to sit directly on Elrond’s left. Fíli, Kíli and Dwalin settled down next to Bilbo, with Bofur and Gloin across the table, while Bombur occupied the end of the table – where nobody would have to fight the rotund dwarf for cushions.

In the end, three seats remained empty next to the Lord of Rivendell, and while elven maidens had already come to retrieve the superfluous settings, cutlery and plates were left untouched at those seats. Bilbo frowned in thought; Elrond’s sons were certainly bound to join them, though they had yet to appear, but he had doubts as to who would be occupying the third seat. Another guest, perhaps? A lone traveller crossing Trollshaws?

Or maybe Lord Elrond’s wife, Bilbo mused. She would be a delight to meet, no doubt.

Lindir reappeared with five other dark-haired elves dressed in simple white robes and carrying large trays. Their content was still out of sight, but the smell alone had Bilbo’s stomach gnawing fiercely on the ribcage that imprisoned it. Dwarves could stick their awful tastes right where they belonged; he would be a very rude hobbit if he didn’t show just how much he appreciated elven food.

There was a wavering, uncertain glint in Lindir’s eyes as he looked the table over, but a gesture from Elrond chased it completely and the elf walked forth.

Dishes of various sizes and shapes were deposited along the table. As expected, there was no shortage of green in the different bowls and plates, much to the dwarves’ inner consternation. Dwalin eyed the bowl of lettuce that a beautiful elf maid settled in front of him as though it had just gone and insulted his whole lineage, and Gloin’s nose scrunched up a little. Thankfully that was as far as it went and no other dwarve outwardly questioned the choice of food.

However, little murmurs of surprise were exchanged when the other trays were unloaded. Boiled eggs. Roast potatoes covered in goat cheese and onions. Smoked salmon, the whole beast, rosy flesh sprinkled with parsley. Another fish, Bilbo failed to recognize it, but it had the most enticing smell and the hobbit felt himself salivate just from the lazy curls of steam rising up from the plate.

Oh, and a few bowls of dried fruit and nuts. Wouldn’t be a real elven dinner without them, after all.

The whole company sat frozen, fork in hand, their gazes glued to the thoroughly unexpected offerings. A nice prospect, having all of his dwarves speechless, but Bilbo only wished Bofur could close his mouth. It was a bit rude, even for the Children of Mahal.

Thorin managed to tear his attention away from the tempting dishes in order to bestow a dubious look on Elrond, to which the age-old elf responded with a twitch of lips that bordered on a small, amused smile. Bilbo gave his suitor’s boot a light nudge with his own bare foot, praying that the King would take the hint and find it in himself to thank Elrond for the nice attention. Even gruffly, that would work as well.

Before Thorin could say anything, however, there was a hurried patter of booted feet and all guests raised their heads to see Elladan and Elrohir come hurtling into the dining space. Without their riding armors, both lads were looking far less bulky and sturdy than when they had first approached the company amidst the rolling hills. With their slightly-wrinkled robes and lopsided circlets – that they kept adjusting fruitlessly, so great was their haste – they neared the table, both acutely aware of their father’s piercing gaze.

They strongly reminded Bilbo of Fíli and Kíli, the day the lads had been late for a patrol due to a night of drinking. Willing to act as if nothing was out of place but flinching under their guardian’s reproachful glare.

Although Bilbo was certain Lord Elrond used more refined words than Thorin when chastising his heirs, and never threatened to have them clean the depths of Rivendell with their own tongues should they ever disappoint him again.

“Well, it seems you have finally decided to grace our lesser souls with your presence tonight,” the elf Lord drawled when his sons were within hearing range – and had realized that they had no choice but to sit next to their father. “One might think that you needed time to dress properly, yet again, one would be mistaken.”

Elladan and Elrohir stopped just short of their seats and stayed on their feet next to one another, clearly lost to the throes of discomfort. Bilbo didn’t miss the look of pity that both heirs of Erebor gave the two elves as they fidgeted with their already full glass of wine. They were no strangers to being reprimanded in the most embarrassing of places.

Before Elrond could torture his sons any more, there was another set of footsteps falling on the tiled floor, this one much lighter and quicker.

“Don’t scold them, please! It’s not their fault!” a small, entirely too young voice piped in.

Before seven dwarven pairs of eye, as well as one hobbit’s, a wee lad wriggled between the elven brothers and came to stand protectively in front of them, small arms crossed on an equally small chest. He couldn’t possibly be taller than Bilbo, but the round ear shells and booted feet marked him as a child of Men. From under the longest strands of his unruly mop of dark brown hair, the boy was staring at Elrond with all the determination and defiance of youth.

“They would have been on time but they had to help me dress!” the child explained. “I wanted to wear the gray pants but they were too high, even with a chair. Dan and Rohir walked past my room and helped me. You can’t scold them for that!”

Lord Elrond, as well as his entire flock of guests, considered the young one for the better part of a minute. Standing as tall as his short legs could afford, with his chin raised high and his chest puffed out, the lad looked every bit as fierce and loyal a protector as a wolf mother defending her pups. Never mind that those pups were twice her size.

Some air puffed out of that little chest when a small smile bloomed on Elrond’s face and the Lord nodded. “Very well, in that case they may be excused. Now, the three of you, please take a seat. If there is one thing that I have learned about our dwarven guests, it is that they eat swiftly and mercilessly, and more often than not you might find yourself picking at crumbs or licking plates.”

A rumble of laughter erupted down the table, as nobody was hypocrite enough to counter the well-aimed jibe at Dwarves’ hearty appetite. But the company showed enough restrain to wait until Elrond’s sons and their undersized lifesaver settled down before they dug into the plates of food.

With the bowls and pitchers so far on the table, Bilbo’s short stature became a real hindrance and more than once he considered getting up on the bench altogether for the remainder of the meal. A good thing, then, that his suitor always had an eye trailing on him and had soon picked up on his difficulties.

As such, Thorin became overly attentive and reacted the second Bilbo seemed to want something. The hobbit’s plate never remained empty for long, nor did his glass, and a fresh slice of bread was always handed to him even as he chewed on the last bite from the previous one. The sheer thoughtfulness of it all had Bilbo’s heart swimming with affection for his dwarf. In other circumstances he might have argued that he was a grown hobbit and perfectly capable of looking after himself; but a little coddling once in a while felt nice.

So divided was Thorin’s attention, between Bilbo’s plate, his own, and small talk with Elrond about the recovery of Erebor, that the dwarven King failed to notice the small inquisitive eyes peering at him from over a bowl of dried plums across the table.

However Bilbo did. He watched with barely-concealed amusement as the child racked disbelieving eyes over Thorin’s sturdy frame. Seemingly unfazed, the dwarf kept eating and answering Elrond’s questions thorough the meal.

When dishes were almost completely emptied, Bilbo decided to twist fate a little bit. With a small cough to disguise a chuckle, the hobbit gave Thorin’s foot a little nudge.

Consequently, Thorin’s head raised and his icy blue gaze met the lad’s light blue one. There was a twinkle of surprise in the boy’s eyes, but to Bilbo’s surprise, the young one didn’t avert them and kept staring at the King. A noteworthy feat, since many of those who crossed Thorin’s gaze felt compelled to look away.

“Yes?” the dwarf asked when the child stayed mute.

“N-nothing, Mister… sir,” came the wavering answer and then the boy did begin to look uncomfortable, squirming close to Elladan’s side.

Thorin used an oversized, ornamented napkin to dab at his mouth before he offered a small, hesitant smile. “My apologies, I only realize now that we have yet to be properly introduced. I am Thorin, son of Thráin, King of Erebor.”

The lad hesitated and sought Elrond’s eyes out. Whatever he found in those age-old orbs seemed to give him strength for he puffed out once more. “I am Estel, adopted son of Elrond and… well I’m not a King.”

Thorin chuckled warmly. “I expect not. Pleased to meet you, akhûnith.”

Estel’s little nose wrinkled in puzzlement in a way that reminded Bilbo of his neighbor Hamfast’s eldest son when the lad was first presented with a carrot. “No, my name is Estel.”

“I know. This is just how my people calls young men such as you.”

“Oh. You have your own language then, just like Ada?” Estel asked, smiling at Elrond.

“Indeed. It is called Khuzdul.”

“Dan and Rohir have taught me Sindarin since I was two, and Ada says I’m rather good now,” the boy boasted proudly. “Maybe you could teach me… Kuzdoul a bit? I’m a fast learner, you’ll see!”

“Ah, unfortunately akhûnith, this language is sacred and meant for dwarven ears only, I am afraid.” Bilbo saw Thorin’s brows soften when Estel’s cheerful features turned into a disappointed pout. “But we hold no such secrecy for Iglishmêk, so I could show you a few things in that language.”

Estel’s curiosity was aroused anew. “You have a second language? How is it different from Kouzdal?”

“Iglishmêk is a silent speech where gestures carry the same weight as spoken words,” the King explained with the patience of one who had to teach two reckless nephews for all their lives. “Ears and mouth are not needed, only hands and eyes.”

Estel’s mouth fell open at this, as though the dwarf in front of him had just sprouted a second head. “You can speak with your _hands_?” The child whirled on his seat to face Elrond. “Ada, they can speak with their hands!” he said as if the elven Lord had just arrived and hadn’t heard Thorin. “No word at all! Isn’t it great?”

“Indeed, it is,” Elrond agreed around a sip of wine. “Would that you knew it as well, Imladris would be a most silent and grateful place.” When he caught Elladan and Elrohir’s interested gazes, the Lord of Rivendell added: “Though I doubt I would appreciate certain persons being able to converse and plot when I stand in the same room as them,” and watched with satisfaction as his sons’ attention was redirected to the lettuce on their plates.

“A most inconvenient aspect, I agree,” Thorin admitted, shooting his nephews a glance of his own that wiped the grins right off of their faces, “but nevertheless, it has served my kin well, in the direst of times.”

“If you want to stay with Lord Elrond, Uncle, Fili and I could teach him a few words,” Kíli offered shyly, but Bilbo wasn’t fooled. It was just a façade to hide a smirk and thoughts filled with mischief at the prospect of teaching a young boy the nastiest words of Iglishmêk.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed as he considered the idea. “I suppose it would drill some patience into your hard skulls,” he finally relented, turning back to Elrond’s adopted son. “Estel, let me introduce Fíli and Kíli, sons of Víli, my nephews and heirs. I strongly advise you not to believe everything they tell you.”

As Fíli and Kíli both made a show of looking downright outraged, Estel blinked and stared at the youngest heir of Erebor. “You are a dwarf too?”

“What? Yes, erm, I’m a dwarf,” Kíli replied, a bit puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, you’re not… I mean you don’t have…” The boy squirmed a bit in his seat as he fought to find a way to convey his thoughts. Which he did. “In the stories Lindir reads to me, Dwarves always have a beard. Are you sure you are a dwarf?”

Silence followed Estel’s question, soon to be replaced by roars of laughter and poking fingers finding their way into Kíli’s ribs. Bilbo sympathetically patted the young dwarf’s arm and offered him the best smile he could conjure up. It seemed the hobbit would be the only one providing some kind of comfort to the archer, since even Thorin was too busy laughing at his nephew’s expense.

“Mahal, bless this world for children,” the King chuckled when his mirth finally subsided. “Yes, akhûnith, Kíli is a dwarf, albeit a very young one. He has time to grow his own beard, in the same way you do, little man.”

At this Estel’s face contorted into slight aversion. “I don’t think I want a beard. They look scratchy.”

More chuckles were drawn from the table, as Elladan and Elrohir – who, up to that moment, had been sitting very still for fear that Estel might unknowingly anger their guests – relaxed and exchanged amused smiles.

“I like your hair, though,” the boy stated. “It’s long and nice and it has so many colors too! There’s red, there’s gold… but I think I like yours the best,” Estel told Thorin, who raised one eyebrow in surprise.

“Do you now?”

“Yes. It’s darker than night, just like my Ada’s, but you have silver streaks and they’re pretty!”

Bilbo swiftly grabbed his glass and drowned his giggles in wine. He would forever cherish the memory of a child calling an almost two-century-old dwarf pretty while munching on potatoes at an elven table. And never mind the swift kick to the shin his cheek earned him.

“When the time comes that you are able to grow a beard, you may find my whole hair decked out in silver, and its appeal greatly diminished,” Thorin said gently.

“Why?”

“Well… it is only normal for hair to turn white as one ages, and while I am not that old yet, I am undoubtedly not in my prime anymore.”

Thorin’s voice trailed off a bit at the end of his sentence, causing all giggling to die in Bilbo’s throat. Something in the King’s eyes was off, as though a candle had suddenly been extinguished and the cobalt orbs left in the dark. He was not the young dwarf of old, the fearless prince leading his people to the safe realms of Eriador, nor the fierce warrior swinging his sword at Azanulbizar. He was King, a weary King, who had spent almost his entire life trying to do right by his people and still was. A King who, even as white and silver invaded his majestic mane, was willing to travel across the world for the safety of the ones he held most dear.

A King, who would only be given some peace when Mahal claimed his life.

Bilbo’s hand slithered under the table and grasped Thorin’s fingers, which were resting on the dwarf’s thigh, for a warm squeeze. In his prime or not, this hobbit would not abandon his suitor even for a whole year of Farmer Maggot’s succulent apples.

“I don’t understand, what happens when you have white hair?” Estel asked innocently.

Thorin was about to respond when a small cough from Elrond caught his attention. A pointed look revealed that the conversation was not heading anywhere the elven Lord liked, which meant that a few issues – such as aging and mortality – had yet to be explained to the little man.

It was Fíli who, surprisingly, swept in to save the day. “Estel, I could not help but notice that you wield your knife as though it were a sword. Do you by chance have some experience, in that field?”

Estel diverted his attention to the golden-haired dwarf and grinned. “Yes, Dan and Rohir have trained me since I was old enough to hold a stick. When he is in Imladris, Glorfindel joins us, but he is so strong I have never managed to hit him. Do you want to see what I can do?”

“My brother and I would be honored,” Fíli said with far too much solemnity.

The serious face amused the child, whose smile stretched his features so much that Bilbo feared they might tear. Estel whirled around to face Elrond, excitement causing him to practically bounce in his seat. “Ada, may we be excused to go to the training yard? I promise to be in my room before night settles in,” he added hurriedly when it looked like the elf was about to argue.

The Lord of Rivendell pondered his options for a while, and gave Thorin a look that might have very well been the Iglishmêk counterpart for ‘Is this a good idea?’, to which the dwarven King’s shrug certainly meant ‘Probably not, but what can we do?’.

“Very well,” Elrond said slowly, carefully, “but no actual weapons are to be used tonight. I would hate to spoil this lovely evening by abandoning our guests to stitch you up.”

“As I would loathe disturbing the peace of this restful place by beating the two of you to within an inch of your lives,” Thorin warned his nephews calmly.

“Point gotten,” Fíli nodded as he rose along with his younger brother. “Lead the way, Estel!”

Estel happily jumped to his feet and all but ran around the table to grasp Fíli’s and Kíli’s hands within his one smaller ones. With the dwarven brothers firmly secured in his grasp, the lad steered them away and out of the dining space, all the while bubbling enthusiastically about one special trick that Glorfindel had taught him and how even a dwarf couldn’t do anything to stop it.

When they were out of sight, Bilbo spied Elladan and Elrohir sharing a knowing look, and wasn’t surprised when Elladan spoke. “We should probably go as well. Lindir has little time to watch over Estel tonight, we should do it in his stead.”

With a mumble of ‘By your leave’ and wishes for them to spend an enjoyable evening, the elven brothers stood and started down a corridor where Estel’s high-pitched voice could still be heard rambling about this and that, punctuated once in a while by a booming laugh from Fíli or Kíli.

“Of all the powers ascribed to you by tales, I was not aware that speaking to children was one of them, son of Thráin,” Elrond commented just as his elder sons’ long hair disappeared from sight.

Thorin chuckled as he refilled his glass along with Bilbo’s. “For us Dwarves, children are gifts, more precious even than all the mithril in Khazad-dûm. We cherish and treasure them more fiercely than a dragon guards its hoard, for they are few and far between. Every babe born to a dwarrowdam is a blessing from Mahal.”

“Very true,” Bofur said cheerfully, his cheeks a bit rosy from his last four glasses of elven wine. “And yer Estel seems like a good lil’ lad.”

“Indeed he is,” Elrond nodded. “He has always been.”

“How did he fall under your care, if I may ask?” Thorin inquired, his right hand returning on his thigh to tangle with Bilbo’s. The hobbit bit back a pleased grin and manoeuvred his bare foot to rest onto his suitor’s boot comfortably.

“A sad tale. The boy was not even old enough to walk when his father was slain by orcs on a hunt. The man was a dear friend of mine, which is why I decided to foster his son. Estel has been living here in Imladris since that day a few years ago.”

“A sad tale indeed,” Thorin nodded, his fingers tightening around Bilbo’s.

“And yet no grief or darkness has ever plagued the young boy’s heart. From the very beginning he has been in high spirits, eager to learn and quick to forgive. He brought life and light into this place, sowing the seeds of hope into even my sons’ despairing souls.”

“Despairing?” Bilbo frowned. Elladan and Elrohir weren’t the exact picture of joy, but they certainly didn’t seem to be drowning in despair.

“Yes, Master Baggins. Before Estel came to us, I spent almost half a century watching my sons wither with each passing day, lost to a disease to which I knew the cause but not the way to cure it.”

Elrond looked up and understood from the heavy gazes upon his person that he could not leave it at that. With a sigh, he pursued. “Your grandfather Thrór was but a glint in his father’s eye, King Thorin, when the Lady of Rivendell was captured by orcs in the Redhorn Pass, in the Misty Mountains. Celebrían, my beloved wife, the mother of my children, suffered a cruel fate at the hands of her tormentors who tortured her until her mind was poisoned and her reason torn to shreds. Many Suns rose and fell before her sons were able to rescue her and bring her back to me.”

Bilbo felt his heart clench as the horrible story unravelled. Oh, would that he was of less gentle folk! This way he wouldn’t feel so keenly affected by such things. The hobbit could only squeeze Thorin’s hand tighter and listen to the rest of the tale.

“For one complete year, I tried to heal her, to cleanse her heart of the atrocities that she had had to endure. But it was all for naught. Her mind was already gone to the Undying Lands, and her body soon followed, leaving behind a mourning husband and grief-stricken children. Her departure dug a hole in our hearts that only Estel was able to fill.”

Silence, heavy and uncomfortable, hung in the air after the Lord of Rivendell was done speaking. As though a crystal bubble was encompassing them all, and nobody dared to breathe lest they damaged it.

Which didn’t prevent Elrond from shattering it with a wave of his hand. “Come, now. It is no time for such depressing tales. Not when you have rid the world of a fire-breathing calamity and reclaimed your long lost home. A bout of celebration is in order.” The elven Lord leaned sideways until his sharp eyes settled on one dwarf in particular. “Master Bofur, is it?”

The toy-maker stopped in mid-bite and abandoned his eggs to look at the elf. “Aye, that would be me.”

“If my memory serves me well, you have great singing skills. Would you care to make this evening livelier than it already is? Just try not to step on the food.”

The dwarves were all left speechless by the request. Thorin made a strangled noise down his glass of wine and Dwalin actually choked on a nut. Both Gloin and Bombur had to vigorously thump his back for it to come down the right way.

Bofur was first to recover and gifted the Lord of Rivendell with his best grin. “Alright, here goes!” he said cheerfully as he hoisted himself up on the bench, making it tremble and forcing Bilbo to latch onto Thorin for fear that he might tumble to the ground.

“You promised we would get some _rest_ ,” the hobbit complained, pulling hard on one of his suitor’s braids for good measure.

“I did not have mischievous elven Lords in mind when I made that promise,” Thorin countered with a pained wince, drawing a chuckle from Elrond, before his voice was drowned out.

“ _There’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn,_

_Beneath an old gray hill!_

_And there they brew a beer so brown,_

_That the Man in the Moon himself came down,_

_One night to drink his fill!...”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll probably be one more chapter of our guys out there on the road, then we'll be in the Shire! Can you believe it? Those first ten chapters were originally meant to be squeezed into one small, vague prologue, but every single time I sat down to write Bilbo turned his big, pleading eyes on me and I ended up with pages and pages of things I hadn't planned. 
> 
> My story's plot lies in the Shire, but those dwarves just wouldn't let me do what I wanted. Little bastards. 
> 
> Again, I appreciate critics and comments to help me improve my English!


	11. Fraternize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me: just sit still and let me write you, damnit!  
> Chap 11: can't catch me! Teehee!

 

“And this one stands for ‘bird’ if I’m not mistaken,” Fíli explained as he signed with his right hand. “Unless it means ‘raven’. For most dwarves these two words mean the same thing, anyway. We don’t know a lot of birds.”

“Not even the Eagles?” Estel asked as he mirrored the sign with his smaller, slender hands. The look of deep concentration on his youthful face was a very amusing sight, but Fíli managed not to chuckle.

“Well, I suppose the dwarves in this company are the only ones who have had close dealings with Eagles recently.”

Estel opened wide, astonished eyes, his hands momentarily forgetting that they were trying to sign. “You have seen Eagles? The ones from Crissaegrim, for real?” The boy’s mouth fell open when Fíli nodded. “Woah… are they really as big as the stories say?”

“Even bigger, with feathers softer than wolf fur,” Kíli answered.

“You mean you have _touched_ them? They let you?”

At this point the child’s eyes were ready to bulge out and roll on the floor. Fíli was certain that, should he reveal that they had in fact ridden the giant birds through the skies, led by the very Lord of the Eagles, the lad would pass out. Not to mention that the two elves in the room were already looking less than convinced about the story.

“That they did, little one, they did. Now, as it is getting quite late and I get the feeling you ought to be sleeping already, I will teach you one last sign in Iglishmêk for the night. Is there something you might like to know in particular?”

“Orc,” came the swift, sharp reply. “Teach me the sign for ‘orc’, please.”

From the corner of his eye, Fíli saw Elladan and Elrohir visibly shudder before the twins’ piercing gazes came to rest on their young ‘sibling’, puzzlement and bitterness painting their fair orbs a slightly darker shade. It took Fíli off guard for a few moments, but before the elves noticed he was staring or Estel renewed his request, Kíli swept in.

“I’ll show you,” the young dwarf said as he sat down on the bed beside the lad. “Along with a few nasty signs to grace these beasts with that your father and my uncle would probably have my head for.”

At the prospect of learning curse words that only he would know about, Estel opened wide eyes and grinned so much that his mouth threatened to engulf his whole head. He happily set to work and reproduced Kíli’s hand signs with great assiduity.

Fíli was left to stand next to Elladan and Elrohir, watching as his brother’s digits executed moves their mother would certainly have their beards for – or worse, if she somehow learned that they were shown to a child. As dwarflings, the both of them had been on the receiving end of several rounds of spanking for less than that, so there was no telling what Dís would do to them if she knew.

The thought of his mother pulling a grown, but nonetheless wailing Kíli across her lap brought a chuckle out of Fíli, which earned him curious looks from the elven twins.

He briefly considered waving it off, but he was feeling like sharing his mirth. “When we were children, our mother taught Kíli and I that we were always to be polite and respectful. Whenever we were rude, she would personally punish us, and I don’t know what she would do to Kíli if she were here with us but it would not be nice.”

Fíli laughed again, but his cheerfulness died somewhere down his throat when the only answer he reaped for his explanation were two identical, sad gazes. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting that.

“What is it? Oh, she wasn’t really hard on us, if that is what you are worried about. And she didn’t punish us that often either, we were a handful but we almost never did dangerous things. Or maybe that is not what concerns you,” the golden-haired prince drawled questioningly when the twins’ eyes took on a confused look.

After sharing a glance that only brothers could understand, Elladan nodded and turned once more to Fíli. “We are merely… surprised, that you can speak of such things with such fondness.”

“What, punishments? They are part of every childhood, I expect.”

“Even though your mother passed away?”

“Well, I suppose- wait, what?” Fíli yelped, choking on his own words as he digested what had just been said. “ _Passed away_? What in Durin’s name is the meaning of this?” For one dreadful, impossibly long moment, the heir of Erebor thought that the elves of Rivendell were aware of current happenings in Eriador that were unknown to the company. The Blue Mountains were so far removed from Rhovanion… but it didn’t make sense, Uncle Thorin had gotten letters from Dís on their journey…

Relief washed over Fíli with Elrohir’s next words. “You said ‘if she were here with us’, so we assumed that she was… deceased.”

“Oh thank Mahal… No, she is very much alive, to my knowledge at least.” Fíli chanced a glance in Kíli’s direction, but fortunately the younger dwarf was too busy signing and correcting Estel to listen in to the conversation. “She was left in charge of the Blue Mountains while we were on the quest to reclaim Erebor, which is why she is not here with us. I am sorry if I made it sound like she was deceased.”

“It is fortunate, then,” Elladan muttered. “Losing close kin is always a dreadful ordeal.”

There was just too much pain and resentment in those words for them to be nothing more than a casual comment. Fíli thought he probably should not inquire further, but his mouth moved on its own accord. “Who did you lose?” he blurted out before he could help it, though his voice had considerably lowered.

The youthful elves gave him a mildly confused look. Fíli was going to apologize since, really, it was no business of his, but it was Elrohir who chose to grace him with an answer, grim as it was. “Our mother was captured by orcs long ago, and though they did not kill her, they hurt her enough for her not to bear living in this world anymore. She sailed for the Undying Lands months after we recovered her.”

A shiver ran down Fíli’s spine. Suicide in any form was a very, very rare thing in dwarven culture and mostly considered taboo. It was believed weakness lied in the minds of those unwilling to face life at its toughest and preferring the cold, blissful embrace of death. Only dwarves who had known ultimate shame or been tortured out of their souls resorted to this dark, unspeakable option.

There was little doubt what being at the mercy of orcish hands could do to an elven mind. And it certainly explained why Elladan and Elrohir had seemed so interested in the Battle of Five Armies and the amount of orcs killed in its wake.

“I’m sorry,” Fíli breathed. “I didn’t know… I won’t try to make it look like I understand how you feel, but I lost my father to orcs as well, when I was a child. It was decades ago but I guess the ache never goes away completely.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Elladan said bitterly, his sharp eyes staring off into nothingness. “No matter how many centuries unfold, it is never to be forgotten.”

A sudden bout of laughter coming from the bed had the three older males’ heads turning to see Kíli and Estel sharing a mischievous smirk. Fíli was instantly wary, but knew better than to ask anything.

Elrohir, sadly, for all his centuries of experience, did not.

“What is the matter, Estel?” he asked softly.

“Kíli told me about a game Dwarves play with one another,” the boy answered through his giggles. “It sounds fun! Could we play tomorrow?”

Clueless as to what the purpose of that game really was, but unable to resist the pair of pleading puppy eyes moistening by the second, Fíli and the twins could do nothing but nod.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin’s arms shot out for maybe the fourth time in the past ten minutes to steady Bilbo after the hobbit tripped over his own overgrown feet, effectively saving his intended’s bum from a drop to the hard tiled floor.

“Beloved, be careful,” the dwarf growled softly, taking the brunt of the giggling shireling’s weight as it came barrelling into his chest. “You are not even paying attention to where you put your feet.”

“Oh, Thorin, sweetling, what a wonderful dinner that was!” Bilbo proclaimed as he leaned heavily – well, as heavily as a small halfling could, at any rate – on the King and dissolved into another fit of giggles. He grasped Thorin’s tunic with both hands and burrowed his face in the blue fabric to hide his mirth and his red-tinted cheeks.

The dwarven King sighed and wrapped his arms around Bilbo to wait the giggling fit out.

It _had_ been a nice evening, this much he couldn’t deny. The food, or rather its nature, had been a most pleasant surprise and had done wonders to tame Thorin’s raging stomach. Dwarves were a hardy folk, but there was only so long one could withstand days on end of nuts and dry berries. The fish and roast potatoes were welcome.

After Fíli and Kíli had been led away by Estel, with the elven twins – yes, _twins_ , reality had it that elven ladies could carry more than one child at once… the mere thought made Thorin’s belly ache – in tow, Bofur had made sure to show Lord Elrond the true extend of his singing capacities. And dedicated two hours of his time to do so.

In the end, even Bilbo had given up on trying to salvage every cushion that fell off the benches as the toy-maker trampled them. The hobbit had grumbled a little bit about Dwarves and manners and how they should acquire some, but then Bofur had stricken up a familiar, upbeat tune that had Bilbo grinning and singing along.

Witnessing his beloved’s joy and laughter had draped a warm blanket over Thorin’s heart. Those sounds, he would never get tired of. That smile, he firmly believed he would go to the edge of this world and back to earn. And those hands, happily clapping along in rhythm with Bofur’s baritone voice, he would spent his whole life holding and keeping safe.

Once Bilbo had time to empty his glass a respectable amount of times, he was pulled most unceremoniously up to stand on the mostly-cleared table by a floppy-hatted dwarf who had taken the mission to make this meal a merry one to heart. Maybe Bilbo had had too much wine or maybe he had forgotten they were in the presence of an elven Lord, but the hobbit had gone willingly without so much as a squeak and proceeded to dance around the table. His large feet, agile and swift in spite of their size, had sauntered this way and that and avoided being stepped on by Bofur’s heavy boots more than once.

In fact the real difficulty had been getting the hobbit to come down from the table.

“My toes are a little sore but I regret nothing,” Bilbo hiccupped when he finally emerged from Thorin’s chest, his golden curls looking like a warg pup had made a nest of them.

He looked up and, Mahal, what those hazel eyes stirred in the dwarf. It was entirely unfair.

“Why didn’t you dance with me when I asked?” the halfling pouted, and if those glittering orbs got any bigger Thorin was not sure he could withstand it.

“I was far too busy watching you, âzyungel,” the King lied, unwilling to disclose that it would be a hot day in Angmar before he did something as childish as dancing on a table. Not to mention an elven one. “You were truly mesmerizing.”

Bilbo scoffed and gave Thorin’s arm a small swat, but the poorly-concealed grin gave away that the comment pleased him. “You silly dwarf. You need to have some fun, you know, you’ll send yourself to an early grave with all that brooding and frowning. See Bofur? He’s always laughing, and he doesn’t look a day past ninety!” Bilbo grinned some more until something seemed to change in his eyes and his entire face crumbled in favor of a mortified expression. “Oh dear, I danced with Bofur!”

“What of it?”

“You are not angry? I mean… I-I don’t want you to be jealous again, or anything. Last time with Beorn… oh sweet Yavanna, I promised you I would be more careful and I just went and danced with Bo-fur!” Bilbo moaned, a hiccup cutting his toy-maker friend’s name in half. “You must think me the most horrible intended alive!”

“Peace, kurdel, peace,” Thorin said gently as he stopped his hobbit’s arms from flailing about. “I have no reason to be jealous. You and Bofur were enjoying yourselves in an entirely innocent way, I would be a fool to deny you such joy when clearly it has lifted your spirits even more than food could.” Though that may be just the wine. Yes, those smooth hairless cheeks were definitely too red.

Thorin steered Bilbo down another corridor as he tried to recall just where their rooms were. Lord Elrond had shown them to the company just before they had set out for dinner, yet their location seemed to have fled the King’s memories. Had they turned left or right after that ridiculous – and poorly designed, by the way – elk statue? For the life of him, Thorin could not remember.

The stairs and halls that weaved harmonically into the depths of Erebor, he could travel without even making the conscious decision to do so and always arrive where he desired. But outside of the Mountain? No such skills existed.

It was no wonder at all that he had gotten lost in the Shire when they had first come to hire Bilbo as their burglar. The blasted hills had taunted him, so similar in aspect and colors that Thorin had thought he was walking in circles.

_Bless Mahal for Gandalf’s mark and the racket a gathering of twelve dwarves can produce. Otherwise Smaug would still be sitting on the Arkenstone due to my wandering clueless between Hobbiton and Bywater._

“You too looked like you were having fun, for once,” Bilbo said with a wide, lopsided smile. “I have never seen you with a harp before, I didn’t know you could play so well!”

Ah, yes. Thorin may have indulged in one or two glass too much since he hadn’t protested as much as he normally would have when he was tugged up to his feet by a guffawing Dwalin and pushed until he was standing in front of a big, silver harp.

Maybe it had been the pleasant buzz in his system, coupled to the hot meal in his satisfied belly. Or the loud cheers and booming laughter from the whole company. Maybe it had been the interested glint in Bilbo’s eyes, only Mahal knew, but soon enough Thorin’s hands had caressed the precious strings and a soft melody had filled the surrounding area. It was a fairly simple tune, as his fingers had not partaken in something that didn’t involve swords or hammers in quite some time. Yet years of honed practice had guided his hands and made his blood sing as he tentatively plucked at the elven contraption – which was, admittedly, a fine instrument to play with, even more so than his old harp back in Ered Luin.

Thorin had played well into the night, more and more self-assured with every melody he gave life to under his fingertips. He had caressed the strings until weariness overtook his mind, and even then he had given in to Bilbo’s cries of ‘One more! One last tune, please!’ until his arms had felt too heavy to lift. By the fifteenth ‘last’ morceau, his fingers had been rubbed raw and one single word had been echoing in the recesses of his mind: sleep.

“My mother taught me how to play when I was but a dwarfling,” Thorin told Bilbo as they rounded a familiar fountain covered with ivy. They were getting close. “After her passing, it became one of my most prized skills.”

“Oh. S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to… oh dear, I always do this, don’t I? I go and open my big mouth…”

“Bilbo, please. You did nothing wrong. Most of my kin has lost most if not all of their relatives, if you start apologizing every time you mention deceased loved ones, you will be a very busy hobbit. And I believe I found your room.”

Bilbo looked up and stared at the door Thorin gestured to with a contemplative look on his flushed features. He squinted at the delicately-carved wood, as though having a silent conversation with the tall panel and leaving Thorin to feel very left out of it. With a solemn nod, Bilbo then turned back to his suitor. “Yep. That’s my room.”

“Indeed. I shall leave you to your sleep then, I will wake you in the morning. Since Lord Elrond was so insistent, we will spend a day and another night in Rivendell. When we are properly rested, we will travel through Trollshaws and… Bilbo, what are you doing?”

It wasn’t that those small, nimble hands were unwanted. But the way they tugged at his coat and forced him forward until Bilbo was trapped between a wall and a sturdy chest… it sent sparks down Thorin’s spine. The dwarf gathered every ounce of willpower he possessed and gently untangled the skilled fingers from his coat. “Dear one, we are in the middle of a corridor and elves-”

“Can watch for all I care,” Bilbo finished for him, a slight slur to his words and a dark veil over his eyes. “You haven’t kissed me since that night with the spider. Always people around. Now we’re alone so please, please…”

“Elves do not sleep,” Thorin hissed through gritted teeth. “What if Lord Elrond-”

“Please, âzyungel…”

The dwarven endearment shot right through Thorin’s heart and he knew, oh he knew that it would be hard ever denying Bilbo anything if the hobbit began to use those terms and that pleading tone.

Oh the unfairness of it all! Then again, he could grant his beloved’s wishes and make it quick enough for them not to be seen…

With one last glance to make sure that they were the only souls in the corridor – he would never stand Elrond’s knowing looks at the breakfast table – Thorin slowly lowered his head until he was able to press his lips gently onto his hobbit’s.

The kiss was kept chaste and soft, as the King carefully mapped out Bilbo’s mouth in case he was in need of references should sleep elude him that night. The hobbit tasted faintly of fruit, though it was greatly overshadowed by the strong presence of wine. The small moan that escaped Bilbo’s mouth convinced Thorin to linger a bit more and deepen the kiss a tad, if only to bring forth another such noise before he went to bed. The dwarf didn’t even object when a set of small hands found their way around his neck for a loose embrace.

When he tried to pull away, however, those hands turned to steel and claw-like fingers imbedded themselves in his shoulders to hold him in place. There was no time left even for a yelp as Bilbo’s lips once more captured Thorin’s for a frantic, definitively less innocent kiss.

It all happened so quickly that the dwarf’s hands shot up to brace himself against the wall, lest he toppled over and crushed his intended to the ground. No, crushing him against the wall seemed like such a better option, after all.

Bilbo didn’t seem to mind being pinned to the wall by dwarven arms. If anything, it made the hobbit more enthusiastic, if the small pleased noises were anything to go by. Thorin made to protest, but then there were teeth on his lower lip, fingers tangling themselves in the hair at the back of his skull, knees finding their way betwixt his legs…

Where had the tipsy, clumsy hobbit from minutes before gone?

“Bilbo,” Thorin groaned when he was able to pull back for more than one second. “Bilbo, stop, anybody could walk by and see us.”

“Come inside, then,” Bilbo breathed into his neck, standing on his tiptoes to nuzzle the tense skin there. “You won’t have to worry about anyone seeing us.”

Tempting words, these were, and Thorin could not help but at least consider them. To give in to the searching digits playing with his collar and just allow the shireling unbidden access to his body. But this was going too fast. He had only given Bilbo the courting beads, and he had yet to craft his first courting gift, for Durin’s sake! They weren’t even supposed to be this close to one another already, and it was a good thing Balin had stayed back in Erebor, for otherwise they would have certainly gotten an earful from the older dwarf.

“Bilbo, I must decline,” Thorin finally whispered, his fingers instinctively reaching up to trace the outline of Bilbo’s hairless cheek. He needed the hobbit to understand this wasn’t rejection, merely an effort of patience on his part. “It would not be proper for us to act this way. Not to mention that you have probably made a dent in Lord Elrond’s wine stock tonight…”

“Oh, wait, what was it already? Ah yes, ‘I’m not inebriated’,” Bilbo scoffed, his grip on Thorin unfaltering. “Fine, I’ll keep my hands to myself, doesn’t mean you can’t come in though. You know, just to sleep.”

It was a nice try. Thorin fought the urge to comment on it out loud and settled for a small, apologetic smile. “That would not be acceptable either, dearest.”

“Why? We have slept next to one another for the whole trip here, why should tonight be any different?”

“Because I fear I may not have as much restraint should we be given complete privacy as I did on the road, where any member of the company could walk in. I do not trust myself with your enticing body so close to mine and away from prying eyes for a whole night.”

That much was true. Thorin had ridden for days directly behind Bilbo, watching with rapt attention as the hobbit squirmed in his saddle or stretched his arms above his head. Days of wishful thinking involving a bed, clothing thrown around on the floor and the small of a certain burglar’s back stretched out languorously for his eager eyes to ravish.

“Then don’t show restraint, what is keeping you?” the frustrated hobbit groaned.

“Bilbo, I will not join with you in an elf’s house while your common sense clearly has deserted you for the evening. I will honor you properly, or I will do nothing.” Gentle but firm, the best way to deal with his intended.

Bilbo huffed and muttered not so subtle curses directed at Dwarves and their preposterous need to always be honorable. But when the shireling looked up and into Thorin’s eyes, there was no trace of anger or dejection. Only resignation.

“Fine,” Bilbo sighed. “Fine. But don’t let me sleep the whole morning away, I’d enjoy a tour while we’re here. Unless,” and at this the hobbit’s voice dropped to a low, deep purr, “you wish to surprise me by sneaking into my bed at the crack of dawn. I for one know I would not object.”

Thorin chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to Bilbo’s unruly curls. “Rest well, beloved. I will see you in the morning.”

“I should hope so.”

With one last caress up and down Thorin’s arm, Bilbo opened his door and clumsily walked back into his room, clearly meaning for the gesture to be seductive but failing miserably at it. And quite endearingly so, as far as Thorin was concerned.

Regardless, as soon as the door closed and hid the tipsy burglar from sight, Thorin released a pained groan and sagged with his back against the wall. He would need a moment. Refused his ravenous hobbit’s advances he may have, but his treacherous body might not have been in complete agreement with his mind. His pants felt entirely too tight, constricting and pressuring him into a most uncomfortable state.

Thorin eyed the elk fountain down the corridor. Perhaps a midnight soak would dampen the lingering fire of lust that burned low in his belly and allow for a bit of rest that night.

Elven etiquette be damned.

 

* * *

 

 

Morning found the dwarven King much more rested and composed. Freshly groomed and dressed, Thorin was quite proud to knock on Bilbo’s door without any lust-filled thought.

“Good morning, Bilbo,” he called, not so loudly that he could be heard down the hall but still enough for his voice to be carried inside the closed room.

When he was met with no response, Thorin frowned. It wasn’t like the shireling to ignore him, and he knew for a fact that even drowsy with sleep, Bilbo would have at least made some kind of noise to acknowledge his interlocutor.

_Maybe he needs a little nudge…_

“Could I have the pleasure of escorting you to breakfast?”

Again, silence. But the dwarf’s keen ears picked on a small, muffled sound coming from inside the room. Something not unlike blankets being shuffled around.

Now, that was odd. No reaction whatsoever, even though food had been mentioned. Had Bilbo taken ill? The possibility made Thorin’s hair at the back of his neck prickle. Something, whatever it was, was wrong.

“Bilbo, is everything alright?”

“Mhmm.”

Ah. A sound, at long last, and long-suffering as it may appear it proved that at least the hobbit was alive.

“That hardly qualifies as answer enough. Is everything _alright_?”

“Yes. No. I-I don’t know, just… just go away. Don’t talk to me.”

Thorin’s eyebrows shot up so high on his forehead that it felt like they met his hairline. That was certainly something he had not expected would ever happen. The shy, well-mannered hobbit sending him on his way as though he was an irksome fly? Well, he was going to be sorely disappointed, for as sure as Durin would one day tread upon this world anew, Thorin was not going to walk away.

The dwarf tried the handle. Bolted. No surprise here.

“Master Baggins, I suggest you open this door right away of your own free will before I do it in your stead,” Thorin warned, crossing his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting. “I would be loath to begin this day by explaining to Lord Elrond why I had to destroy his property.”

A pained groan floated from inside the room and, seconds later, a familiar patter of bare feet hitting the tiled ground reached Thorin’s ears, much to the dwarf’s satisfaction.

A whisper of wood sliding against wood and the door slid open slowly, almost shyly to reveal a very bedraggled hobbit. The state of Bilbo’s clothing indicated that he hadn’t bothered to undress before falling into his bed, which was not really a surprise, given how much his veins had been singing with drink the night before. Complete with the tousled hair and drowsy face, Bilbo was the perfect picture of a bear pulled out of hibernation weeks before spring.

What struck Thorin more than the rather unkempt state of his intended was the fact that Bilbo was staring at the floor and avoided his eyes at all costs. A strange occurrence if there ever was one.

“You must think me quite the fool,” the hobbit mumbled, visibly shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Indeed.” Thorin noted the way Bilbo flinched a bit at the word, but chose not to comment on it. “Truly, Bilbo, for all your talks about being a grown hobbit, don’t you think you are a bit too old to lock yourself up in your room?”

“I-I know. I just… I was nervous. After last night, I… didn’t quite know how to act.” Twitchy fingers raked through the untamed curls; still, Bilbo would not raise his gaze from his intense study of the floor.

“I am afraid you are not making any sense, ghivashel.”

“Last night!” the shireling almost squeaked. “Here! I… I was tipsy beyond words, I can’t believe I was so… _raunchy_. Dear Yavanna, you must be so disgusted with me, I know I am.”

“Kurdel…”

“And you would be right, too! It was debauchery, filthy debauchery, nothing less. Pushing myself onto you as I did? Complete lack of manners. Why, my poor father must be rolling around in his grave as we speak. I should know better.”

“Bilbo.”

“What I did was disrespectful and I am aware it may be considered a breach of dwarven etiquette. So if…” Bilbo squirmed a bit, pulling at his golden locks rather than combing through them. He gulped down before he carried on with his sentence. “So if you want to terminate the courtship, I-I understand.”

For the second time that morning, Thorin’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and it took him a few moments to actually understand Bilbo’s last words for what they really were. When he did, his heart gave a jolt. How could such a horrid word as ‘terminate’ be placed in a sentence so close to ‘courtship’?

Without making the conscious decision to do so, Thorin reached out for his intended with both hands. Gently, he covered Bilbo’s twitching fingers and simultaneously cupped one hairless cheek to coerce the hobbit’s gaze up.

When at last hazelnut met blue, Thorin whispered: “Do you think me so stupid that I would forego my greatest joy simply because my intended, who by the way is anything but disgusting, was a tad… demonstrative in his love for me? That I would forsake the very thing I hold most dear on the pretext that you showed more appreciation than you normally do? I am not a man, Bilbo, I am a dwarf. And Dwarves do not love lightly.”

As soon as the words were out of Thorin’s mouth, the King found himself burdened with an armful of hobbit. Bilbo flung small arms around Thorin’s neck and buried his flushed face in his suitor’s chest to hide his embarrassment.

“It’s not even past first breakfast yet, and I’ve already managed to make a complete fool of myself,” Bilbo mumbled against coarse fabric.

Thorin could only chuckle and give the sulking hobbit a compassionate pat on the back. “You did no such thing, kurdel, and since you mentionned breakfast… This dwarf wouldn’t mind a hearty meal if he is to spend the whole day in the company of elves.”

“Right. To breakfast, then.”

 

* * *

 

 

Opposite to what people in their right mind might have believed, Imladris did not dissolve into flames or fall prey to complete destruction that day, even though seven dwarves were free to roam its corridors in bright daylight.

The members of the small company had put on their best behaviors for the occasion – and that actually meant sleeping almost the whole day away in-between meals to catch a little rest before the last leg of their journey. Curiously, Thorin found he didn’t mind all that much. Non-awake dwarves were less likely to cause trouble such as destroying furniture or desecrating fountains with their hairy behinds, and that was perfectly fine.

Early in the afternoon, Bilbo had been snatched away by Lord Elrond for a tour of the library. The hobbit had opened wide eyes at the elf’s suggestion, as though he had just been offered one of the Silmarils, which had been a very amusing sight to witness. With one last, excited glance at Thorin, Bilbo had let himself be shepherded off to mountains of scrolls and seas of books. Thorin was secretly glad that the invitation hadn’t been extended to him as well; finding a polite way to explain how little he cared about elven literature would have been a delicate, if not impossible feat. No, he had been only too happy to nod and wish them a pleasant afternoon, chuckling at the way Bilbo was practically bouncing with glee as he was led away by Elrond. Hobbits.

The dwarven King had been left to his own devices then, his booted feet instinctively taking him back to his room and the letter he had begun to write for his sister.

As he sat down and picked up the white quill that one of the elf maids – Gawadeth, or something with the same ring to it – had graciously given him along with enough scrolls for Ori to write a whole journal, words came to him easily and for the best part of two hours, quiet scratching sounds filed the room and almost drowned out Bombur’s snoring from three rooms down the hall.

Not quite, but still.

Thorin had originally meant for his letter to be short and to the point, so he couldn’t help but be startled when he reached the bottom of his first scroll. What was supposed to be a brief message to inquire about Dís’ whereabouts and how far the caravan was from the Shire had turned into a foot-long depiction of their journey mixed in with wishes for their kin to be soon safe within the sturdy walls of Erebor.

It soon dawned on the dwarf that he missed his younger sister far, far more than he thought. Fíli and Kíli might be her flesh and blood, but Dís embodied the only remnants of his past family that he had left. She was the only one, except maybe someday Bilbo, who could claim to understand Thorin’s heart and motives, for they had been sharing a path ever since she was born.

They had laughed on Thrór’s knee as dwarflings, grabbing grey hair and ornaments alike and making the old King smile. They had learned to walk in the same room, their mother’s hands firmly clenched in theirs. They had played pranks on the same unsuspecting guards, although while Thorin and Frerin always reaped a punishment, Dís always escaped unscathed.

They had grieved together. When death first claimed Frís the day Erebor fell under Smaug’s raging inferno. Dís had only known ten summers then, little more than a babe by dwarven standards, yet she had known she would never see her mother again and had spent hours crying into her older brothers’ chests as they carried her around. She had been older with a few decades worth of wisdom under her belt when their family was robbed of Thrór and Frerin on the same ruthless day, leaving Thráin to waste away and finally disappear entirely. Older, Thorin had been as well, yet brother and sister had spent countless nights clutching one another as they wept, fearing morning would come and sweep away the only family they had left.

It never happened. They were both still alive and Thorin would be thrice damned before he let fate keep them from spending the rest of their lives safely in the Lonely Mountain, until Mahal saw fit to call them back to his Halls to wait with their ancestors for the ultimate Battle.

The dwarven King was startled from his thoughts by a frantic knock on his door. With a slight frown, he put his quill down carefully by the inkwell.

“King Thorin, are you here?” came the elven voice from the other side of the door.

Thorin sighed. And he had foolishly hoped it was only Bilbo returning from the library. He should have known the hobbit would not be seen until sundown, or even later than that.

For a moment he considered keeping quiet to give the impression than the rooms were empty, but it immediately struck him as highly rude and he cursed internally. Confound his intended, his hobbit-y manners were rubbing off on him. With another heavy sigh, Thorin slid off his chair and made for the door.

Blasted elf could probably hear him breathe through the wall, anyway.

Thorin opened his door and came face to face – or so to speak – with a very distraught Lindir. If the elf’s slightly dishevelled hair and lopsided circlet were anything to judge by, Elrond’s (intendant) had been in quite a hurry, possibly running to Thorin’s door. For which reason, the dwarf dreaded to discover, but it probably had something to do with the water darkening the elf’s clothing.

When he saw Thorin, there was a glint of relief in Lindir’s eyes. “Praise Ulmo, I have been searching for you all over Imladris, King Thorin.”

Thorin tried his best not to sound amused. Much. He never thought he would live to see the day an elf would be delighted to see him. “Well, it appears you have found me. Now, how can I help you?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Here! Here! Fíli, for Mahal’s sake, over _here_!”

“Elladan, block the way!”

“I am _trying_ , Elrohir! But he keeps escaping me…”

Thorin heard the voices before he even rounded the corner leading into Rivendell’s great gardens, Lindir on his heels. The elf had been twisting his hands nervously ever since he had given Thorin the reason why he had been looking for him.

Said reason was currently splashing its way half-naked around Elrond’s biggest white fountain, pale skin and hairiness on display for all Arda to see.

Fíli was the first one Thorin spotted. It was hard not to, with that mane of blond hair shining under the radiant sun even though it was damp and clinging to his oldest nephew’s skull. His body was bare save for his pants and, of course, his gleaming beads. The blond prince was running in the fountain, water going up past his knees and soaking his clothing even higher than that. In his thick arms, curled into a tight little ball, Estel was equally underdressed and clutching the dwarf’s shoulders with all the strength his small hands possessed. The boy’s laughter was filling the garden, as pure and crystal clear as the water springing from the white fountains.

Three forms were running after Fíli and his tiny burden. Thorin was not surprised to see Kíli dashing through the wide fountain, not an inch of skin left dry, for he had yet to see the day one brother would have fun without the other. Elrond’s twin sons’ presence, on the other hand, had Thorin halting his steps right away.

Though the elves were not as bare as the dwarven brothers – which meant they had kept their under tunics as well as their pants, but not much more in terms of decent clothing – they were just as… enthusiastic. Come to think of it, this was the first time Thorin witnessed such vivid emotions on an elven face. Elladan and Elrohir were both running wildly, long dark hair leaving a mist of droplets in their wake as they trudged through the waters or were caught under a small waterfall. Wide, toothy smiles were painted across their features, Sindarin swift and musical on their lips as they shouted at one another or for Estel.

A few seconds of silent observation were enough for Thorin to figure out what to make of the situation. Apparently Estel was held captive by Fíli and Kíli, waiting – not to a terrible extend, though – for his elven ‘brothers’ to come and rescue him. A simple game, at least at first glance, undoubtedly too childish for lads so old but certainly no cause for worry.

Thorin was about to turn and ask a still nervous Lindir what had his ears in a knot when suddenly, with a delighted cry, Estel went sailing well over the two elves’ heads to land into Kíli’s waiting arms.

Ah. Of course. Elves probably did not have _that_ kind of game.

“He’s mine, come and get him!” Kíli taunted as he heaved one gleeful Estel over his shoulder as though the boy weighed nothing and rushed to the other side of the fountain.

“You were supposed to stand in his way, Elladan!”

“He slipped under my arm! A plague on the shortness of Dwarves!”

“Hey! You don’t hear me insulting your ridiculous pointed ears,” Kíli shouted with a smirk, a grinning Estel now seated on his shoulders and begging the dwarf to toss him, please please one more time, all the while pulling at chunks of dark hair. “Ouch! Mizimith, that hurts! If you make a bald dwarf out of me, I shall have to hand you over to the enemy!”

“Never!” the boy yelped. “But they’re closing in! Hurry, you have to toss me!”

Kíli eyed the approaching elves and made a show of looking awfully worried. “Indeed. Let’s see how high you can fly to escape their crooked clutches, akhûnith. Ready? One, two-”

“Kíli, stop!” Thorin boomed, effectively freezing his youngest nephew in place. He hadn’t meant to shout, but Lindir’s blood had fled his face and Thorin did not particularly want to deal with a fainting elf. Even though a harmless bout of roughhousing between children had never caused any dwarfling he knew any lasting damage, he could understand how fairer folk would view this as a slightly… brutal proclivity.

Human and elven bones broke so easily, too. A mess the King would rather avoid.

Kíli squirmed under his uncle’s heated gaze and sheepishly put Estel down on his feet. “We… we meant nothing by it, Uncle,” he said quietly, ruffling the child’s hair apologetically when the boy looked up at him with disappointment.

“I am certain of it, however I wish you and your brother would refrain from murdering our host’s son if you could help it.”

Both dwarven brothers shared one look but had the decency to cast their eyes to the water ahead of their feet in shame.

It was Estel, standing as tall as his short legs would permit, who dared to cross Thorin’s blue gaze and almost made the dwarf step back. “Fíli and Kíli have done nothing wrong! And they never meant to kill me, we were playing. Don’t Dwarves play from time to time?”

Thorin blinked and had to hunt some of his wits down to come up with an answer. “They do. But they also have bones and skulls far thicker than yours ever will be, âkhunith. They might unwillingly hurt you. I am not,” Thorin said louder, raising an authoritative hand to kill his nephews’ protests before the words even left their mouths, “forbidding games, I would merely ask you to be more careful as you play. Is this to your convenience?”

A few uncertain glances later, the lads nodded.

“Very well. And next time Master Lindir tells you to stop, please just stop. Don’t force him to seek me out in the middle of the afternoon. It was lucky I was just writing and not sleeping, you know what happens when I am woken from a nap? Is that a fate you wish upon Master Lindir or yourselves?”

Fíli and Kíli’s lips stretched into smirks but the uneasy looks on the three elves’ faces – tinged with fear on Lindir’s part – amused Thorin to no end. They burned to ask, the King could almost feel it, however they would not. They would never-

“What happens when you get woken up from a nap?” Estel inquired with a confused frown, small rivulets still dripping from his wet bangs.

Laughter threatened to bubble its way up Thorin’s throat but the dwarf bit it down. Had this boy no fear at all? Asking to be taught Iglishmêk, being thrown back and forth between dwarves and now standing up to a King? Thorin was sure his cousin Dáin would kill to have soldiers half this brave.

“Well, little master, if you must know…”

 

* * *

 

 

His hands splayed across the guardrail of his personal balcony, Elrond was bestowing a fond gaze upon his gardens.

Although he was glad for Thorin’s intervention, the elven lord could not honestly say that he was wary of the slightly rough game taking place in his prized fountains. He would have actually stepped in himself to tone down the playful chase, if not for one single yet maddening fact.

Elrond could not remember the last time his sons had smiled so much.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap: the Shire!


	12. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the company finally reaches Bag End, they are awaited... or are they?

Bilbo had had his fair share of heart-breaking sights through his hobbit life. Starting when he had turned down Gilly Proudfoot’s poor attempts at courting on his fortieth birthday – and really, he hadn’t meant to be rude, but those cookies had been downright sickening and spitting seemed much more polite than vomiting on her shoes, anyway. Then there had been good old Farmer Maggot, that dreadful year when wind and rain had racked his trees bare of anything worth being called fruit. More recently, Bilbo’s heart had also been stabbed the evening the Company had found the Hidden Door in the side of the Lonely Mountain, and Thorin’s voice had broken when the ‘last’ light of Durin’s Day disappeared and took all their hopes with it. The dwarf’s limp arms and slumped shoulders had driven a knife through Bilbo’s guts, making the hobbit itch to comfort Thorin though at that time, he didn’t know how to proceed.

Estel’s quivering bottom lip as he hugged Fíli tightly around the neck just added to the ever-growing list.

“Do you have to leave so soon?” the lad asked for maybe the tenth time that morning. Maybe he thought the answer could change after a while if he tried. Unfortunately, it was not to be so.

“We don’t have much time, mizimith,” Fíli said yet again, but the easy smile on his lips spoke of patience and forbearance. Idly, Bilbo mused that the blond-haired dwarf would someday make a great father. As well as a great King. “Our kin is probably already on the road, we have to meet with them as soon as possible.”

The repeated allegation did nothing to loosen Estel’s fingers from their fierce hold on golden braids. If anything, the small digits just dug further in the thick mane, to the point Bilbo feared hair was actually going to come off.

“Just stay for lunch? Lindir told me there will be blueberry pie for dessert,” the child pleaded.

Fíli chuckled. “Lad, in five seconds I am getting on my pony and leaving for the Shire, whether you are still clinging to me or not. And I know Hobbits already consider us Dwarves to be strange folk, so the addition of human ornaments in our hair will not affect them very much.”

Bilbo huffed, but secretly hid a smile. True enough. Any folk out of the Shire was labelled as ‘strange folk’ amongst hobbits, what with their uncanny habit of wearing boots and riding horses. Hobbits may have been the shortest children of Eru to walk on Arda, but they sure had no qualms about looking down their noses at people they thought weird. Namely, Dwarves and their complete lack of respect for furniture or dishes.

Although Bilbo might very well be the only hobbit of the Shire aware of those last two things.

With one swift move, Kíli plucked Estel from his brother’s neck, ignoring the boy’s protests. “Come on, lad! I swear, we will stop on our way back to Erebor to see you, is that to your liking?”

Instantly latching onto Kíli’s unruly hair, Estel’s gaze bore deeply into the dwarf’s amused one. “Is that a promise? Really?”

“It is, little one. I swear it on my beard.”

The small human’s lips twitched, and Bilbo knew without a doubt that Estel itched to comment on how Kíli would not lose much should he break this oath, but the boy repressed his urges and settled for a stiff nod. After a quick hug around the neck, Elrond’s youngest charge wriggled from Kíli’s grasp and mournfully trudged back to where Elladan and Elrohir were standing.

The twins did not look too happy with the company leaving, either, though they took great care in concealing it. However, the twitching eyes and stolen glances at the Princes of Erebor were not lost on Bilbo. What would Thorin do, should he learn that his heirs had befriended the elves he despised so much?

The Thorin of old would have snarled and seethed, lecturing both Fíli and Kíli at length about shameless tree-shaggers and how they should avoid them like the plague. But the new Thorin, the King Under the Mountain, cared little for such poppycock. Hobbits would turn into full-fledged warriors before Thorin offered Thranduil his friendship, but the tall dwarf did not seem to mind the elves from Rivendell. From a balcony, Bilbo had seen Thorin allowing Lindir to drag him through the gardens, first timidly then excitedly, showing this plant’s iridescent petals or boasting about that tree’s healing properties that always were useful to Lord Elrond for treating the little one’s fevers in winter. To his credit, the dwarven King had managed to not look annoyed or bored.

Not by much, at any rate.

Bilbo turned his head to rack his eyes across Thorin’s figure as the dwarf tested the length of his stirrups. He had changed. They all had, in their own way, for after all one could not spend one entire year on a mad quest to reclaim a kingdom and still remain the same. But Thorin’s transformation had been the most spectacular of all, Bilbo thought as he idly played with one of his courting beads, feeling the small weight roll easily between his fingers. All for the best.

“Are you quite sure you do not want riders to accompany you to the other side of Trollshaws?” Elrond asked once more, foolishly hoping to change a dwarf’s mind after it was set. “Evil might have been cleansed from this world for a while, but these roads have always been unsafe for lone travellers or defenceless groups.”

“Your offer is much appreciated, Lord Elrond, but we are neither,” Thorin answered, still polite although now there was the tiniest bit of annoyance creeping into the edge of his voice. They were no helpless dwarflings to be chaperoned through the woods lest they get scared of wolves. “We will be quite safe, I reckon.”

Although the answer did not seem to please Elrond – if the way his lips thinned was to be taken as an indication – the elven lord nodded. “Very well, then. May the Valar watch over you on the rest of your journey, King Thorin, and lead your kin to their rightful place.”

Thorin’s gaze locked with Elrond’s for one last, heavy second, before the dwarven King nudged Jango around and through Rivendell’s intricate gates. Words of thanks were unnecessary, as the look carried between the two males had been laden with gratitude and there remained nothing to add.

Lord Elrond and his three sons stood watching as the company departed, and if Estel was the only one waving at the dwarves as though they were prisoners leaving for an execution, the three elves surrounding him were probably itching to do just the same.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until they had ridden past Bree and into the first fields of Buckland that it dawned on Bilbo just how keenly he had been missing the Shire.

Not just the lands, the hills or the flowers, no. But the copious amount of hobbits pattering about, either working on their crops or just lazying around in the sun, was like a balm on a heart Bilbo did not even remember bruising. Each greeting thrown from under a large straw hat, each bark of laughter erupting from a pen where pigs were enjoying their lunch, each fuzzy-footed fauntling running under their ponies’ bellies as they played made Bilbo’s grin grow larger and larger, until he feared his face would actually split in two.

The Shire. His home for fifty years.

Leaving it would not be a pleasant task, even though Bilbo was well aware of the wondrous aspects a life in Erebor possessed, but for now the hobbit chose not to dwell on those thoughts. They belonged in the future, a realm he had no power over, while the present was his to enjoy. And he fully intended to make the most of their stay in Hobbiton, however short it may be.

Through Buckland and over the Brandywine River they rode, only passing a few hobbits brave enough to work in the fields under the unforgiving midday Sun. The small company received a few glances, not all of them friendly or trustful to be honest, but Bilbo had expected no less. Hobbits and Men were usually the only ones to travel those roads, so a group of dwarves on pony back with weapons strapped on their persons for the whole world to see was certainly leagues out of Hobbits’ comfort zone.

He couldn’t blame them, after all. He had been that kind of halfling, once, though it felt like a lifetime ago.

Bilbo steered Snowball to walk alongside Thorin’s pony and did his best to meet every questing look with a bright smile or a polite nod. His Baggins manners were coming back full force after one entire year of relying mostly on his Took side, which felt a bit foreign at first but he marvelled at how quickly he eased back into his old ways.

“Someone is in a good mood, it appears,” Thorin’s deep voice stated from Bilbo’s left, tinged with amusement.

The hobbit turned his head and could not help but grin widely at the sight of the smirk twisting one side of his intended’s mouth. Even the raven on the King’s shoulder seemed to be looking on with mirth, halting his preening to glance back and forth between both males. Ever since his brother had departed for the Blue Mountains – or hopefully, someplace nearer on the road – Caräk had elected to stay on Thorin’s shoulders for most of their waking time.

“How could I not be?” Bilbo replied playfully. “It’s a beautiful day, and we are hours away from Bag End, where I’ll get to spoil some of my dearest friends rotten with my special apple pie recipe. Not to mention that there happens to be a very handsome dwarf around here whom I hope is enjoying himself as much as I am.”

“You are right,” Thorin drawled, his eyes darting up skywards. “It _is_ a beautiful day.”

Bilbo shook one foot free of its stirrup to give Thorin’s knee a light kick. “Silly dwarf,” he hissed when the older male merely chuckled. The hobbit shook his head; it was very unlikely that Thorin would ever grow to accept a compliment.

Bilbo had tried to praise the dwarf on numerous occasions. On his hair and beard’s steady growth ever since Thranduil had them cut – which, most of the time, was not a very smart thing to do since it only served to remind Thorin of the act itself and make the dwarf cranky – or on his strength as the King recovered from his grievous injuries. Thorin usually only grunted or waved him off, but Bilbo had sometimes caught the secret pleased smile lighting his beloved’s face when he thought nobody was looking anymore.

Those thrice-damned Dwarves and their need to hide from the entire world…

“How much time do you think we will have to wait for your sister in the Shire?” Bilbo asked, tugging lightly on Snowball’s reins to avoid a cart of hay led by a tall middle-aged man. From the looks of it, the man was running late, hence the way he urged his horse faster.

Thorin thought for a moment before he replied: “Three or four days at least, more if the caravan hasn’t left the Blue Mountains yet. I hope it won’t stretch further than two weeks, or we will have winter snapping at our heels by the time we all reach Erebor.” The King looked over Caräk’s obscenely wide frame to peer at Bilbo curiously. “Why are you asking? Is there some reason you do not want to linger in Hobbiton?”

“No, no, of course not! How can you think such a thing? No, I was just wondering how much time I had to pack, tidy up, say my… well, my goodbyes, and so forth.”

Bilbo’s eyes went to the road ahead, word dying in his throat. Now, that was one thing he hadn’t thought about much. How in Yavanna’s good name was he going to explain his motives for leaving the rolling hills of the Shire to spend the rest of his life in a mountain amongst Dwarves? Bilbo could almost see the odd looks he would get were he to admit that he had fallen in love with their King.

He could always pretend the food was better in Rhovanion. Though that would be a lie big enough for three dragons to fit inside.

For the first time, Bilbo felt relieved that he no longer had parents to answer to. While his mother would have eventually accepted Thorin as Bilbo’s intended, Bungo would have doubtlessly dropped dead from surprise. Not that he didn’t have other relatives to deal with, mind you, but it mattered less. He could even find some way for his relationship with Thorin to remain a secret no matter how long they stayed in Hobbiton, he had no qualms about that in the slightest, and as long as nobody asked Bilbo guessed he would not say anything.

And if somebody asked, well, this Baggins had been all across Middle-Earth and back and faced greater foes than nosy relatives and prying neighbors. He would deal with them.

When Bilbo looked up once more, he was startled to find Thorin’s eyes devoid of his earlier playfulness. The blue orbs were dark with concern and… doubt? It was unsettling to say the least, since those expressions were rare on the dwarf’s features and twisted his entire face into a foreign mask that Bilbo was not sure he liked.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong again?” he asked.

“No, you did not,” came the muttered reply.

“Oh, good, good. With you dwarves, one never knows… what is it, then?”

“Sometimes I wonder…” The King paused, as if struggling for words to express his thoughts. “That is… I hope I am not robbing you of a better life in the Shire,” he finally blurted out. Without gracing Bilbo with any time to answer with more than wide eyes and a gaping mouth, words kept stumbling out of Thorin’s mouth. “I am quite familiar with the pain of being parted from one’s kin, be it family or friends, in favor of an unknown path. I understand now that I might have been selfish in my intentions to have you by my side for the years to come, since I am actually tearing you away from your birthplace and… well, from your lifelong home.”

Bilbo could only look on, flabbergasted, as Thorin’s gaze left his own to settle on Jango’s mane. He could almost feel the accursed gears turning and cracking in that insufferable dwarven head; that fool was feeling guilty for pulling Bilbo out of the Shire much like Smaug and his inferno had driven the dwarves of Erebor from their kingdom. This could not be borne.

“You are tearing me away from _nothing_ , Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo scoffed, and his voice must have carried more force than it usually did for his intended’s attention was once more directed at him. “I am coming with you of my own free will, I will not have you torturing yourself thinking I would rather go back to my quiet, peaceful and overall utterly boring life in the Shire. Yes, I have a few good friends that I will miss, and yes I will mourn my garden and Mid-Summer Festivals. But my home, my real home, is not in a hole below the ground. Nor is it carved into the side of the Lonely Mountain. My real home lies with my heart, and the hands I entrusted it in.”

Something that suspiciously looked like surprise and astonishment flashed in Thorin’s eyes, and the dwarf’s mouth opened to reveal the tiniest slip of white teeth as he stared at his hobbit. Bilbo fought the triumphant grin that begged to stretch his lips but he finally caved in after a few seconds of pregnant silence on Thorin’s part.

The sight of the mighty King of Erebor at a loss for words was not an everyday occurrence, after all. A hobbit had every reason to feel smug about it.

Even Caräk agreed, if the high-pitched screech that sounded like tortured laughter was anything to judge by.

 

* * *

 

 

When they finally made it to the outskirts of Hobbiton, it was nearly time for tea. Not that Bilbo had had any opportunity to enjoy a hobbit’s regular number of meals per day for a long time, but the fact that roads were free of hobbits and the enticing scent of freshly-backed cookies wafting from opened windows was a dead giveaway.

It was Dwalin’s stomach that started growling first, much to its owner’s annoyance.

“I don’t s’pose it would be acceptable to just knock and borrow some food?” the warrior grumbled, one large hand coming up to pat his armored belly. Dwalin seldom stepped outside without enough layers to fight his way through an entire orc army, never mind how hot summers could get in the Shire.

“Borrowing implies that you intend to give it back later, which is something you cannot do with food,” Bilbo chirped, looking back at the bald dwarf with a toothy grin. “And you are right, it would not be acceptable. You’d probably just scare a few hobbits half to death with that scowl.”

“Didn’t seem to bother ye first time we met,” Dwalin replied.

“That’s because I am a Baggins as well as a Took, which means I’m entitled to have good manners even though my visitors are burly dwarves I don’t know plus one meddling wizard.”

“Speakin’ of which, we’re sorry for yer pantry,” Bofur said from somewhere at the back of the small group. “At the time we just assumed ye’d stocked up on food ‘cause ye knew we were comin’. When ye said our arrival was unexpected, well… we’re sorry we wolfed everythin’ down.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Bilbo said with a dismissive gesture of the hand. “I may have lost a few prized hams that night, but I gained thirteen faithful friends for it. It all evens out nicely in the end, doesn’t it?”

Humbled silence hung like a curtain over the small company as every pair of eyes darted to the honey-haired hobbit leading the way. Bilbo felt the weight of seven dwarven gazes prickling at the back of his neck, and though he briefly considered ignoring them curiosity forced his head around to face his companions.

They were all a bit ridiculous, staring at Bilbo as though he had suddenly grown a foot-long beard, with the exception of Thorin who was looking at him with undisguised fondness. That whole bunch of oafish lumps ought to be watching where their ponies were going, before one of them slid off his saddle and broke his leg a few yards away from Bag End. Now that would be a shame.

“Oh, in the name of all that grows, please stop that,” Bilbo groaned. “You know I think of you all as friends, I would not have striven to help you fight a dragon and get back Erebor if I didn’t. Please don’t look so surprised.”

“Your friendship has been hinted at, of course, but to hear you speak of it so bluntly, as though it is something indisputable… it is an honor, to be held in such high regards,” Fíli breathed, his hands holding the reins so loosely that Bilbo would not be surprised if they were to slip from the prince’s grasp entirely.

“We swear you will never regret having us as friends, Bilbo Baggins!” Kíli promised solemnly around a boyish grin, the afternoon Sun lighting his face and making it shine with youthful joy.

“Let us all remember those words later on when you are tracking mud all over the floor and pillaging my pantry once again. Now hurry up, I wouldn’t terribly mind a bit of tea before it’s time for dinner.”

The ride through Hobbiton was quiet and mostly uneventful. They did not meet anybody save for a few fauntlings who were running after a cat, trying to catch the poor beast. When they spotted the company, they immediately switched their attention from the fleeing stray to the company of seven burly dwarves led by one hobbit. But was it a hobbit, really?

Bilbo could feel the question in their eyes as the youthful orbs mapped out every detail from his dirtied toes to his honey curls. He supposed he did not look much like a hobbit, to be truthful, and the questing eyes suddenly made him feel very uncomfortable in his saddle. Hobbits had generous tuffs of hair running from their thick-soled feet all along their calves, not timid peach fuzz peppering ankles that still bore the marks from heavy burning. They were clad in colorful waistcoats, soft velvet shining under the Sun, not enclosed in mithril mail and high-collared, fur-rimmed coats that suffocated the air out of them. And male hobbits most certainly did not let their hair grow past their shoulders or braid beads into it. Flowers they might weave in there, sometimes, but never metal beads.

They did not have callouses on their hands and bums from riding a pony day in and day out. They did not lose most of their soft belly running through the wilderness for one entire year. They did not have scars here and there on their bodies, courtesy of a ruthless warg or an orcish blade. They did not…

“… ilbo? Are we still heading the right way?”

Bilbo was brutally drawn from his musings by Thorin’s familiar voice. He blinked, twice, to notice that their ponies had pulled to a stop in front of Hobbiton’s magnificent Party Tree. How they had ended up here, in the Party Field, he didn’t know, lost as he had been in his inner self-torture, and it was clear from Thorin’s tone that the King himself was a bit confused. A look into those icy blue pools confirmed this, yet the cobalt gaze was heavy with something else.

Sympathy. And warmth. As though Thorin somehow knew how foreign Bilbo felt, right here in the town where he was born. Had the dwarf felt the same way when he had stepped inside Erebor, decades after Smaug had claimed it as his own? Uncomfortable and out of place, with the lingering impression that he had been gone for so long that he just didn’t belong there anymore?

Bilbo steeled himself and offered his suitor the best smile he could. Something shifted in Thorin’s gaze then, as tension was visibly lifted from the dwarf’s broad shoulders, and the fondness radiating from those eyes acted as a soothing balm on Bilbo’s doubtful heart. Worries fled his mind like magpies fled the fields when good Farmer Maggot started shouting, and suddenly all around him Hobbiton seemed brighter, warmer, more welcoming.

He had no reason to feel foreign here, not when he had spent half a century living in Hobbiton and making the most of what the little town had to offer as he grew up into a – mostly – respectable, adult hobbit.

True, respectable hobbits did not run off into the wild with a ragtag bunch of crude, brawny dwarves to free a kingdom from a dragon’s claws. They did not laugh to raunchy dwarven songs nor did they dance half the night away on the table of a highborn elf. And they doubtlessly did not fall heels over head in love with insufferable, brooding yet astonishingly good-looking dwarven Kings.

Well… their loss.

“Ah, yes, we are still heading for Bag End,” Bilbo stammered when it became obvious from Dwalin’s scowl that his companions had been waiting for an answer for a good while. “I-I just thought we could take a detour, enjoy the scenery a tad, you know. Hobbiton is beautiful this time of the year.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, but I’ll be much more receptive to th’scenery once I’ve had a bit of rest and somethin’ in my belly,” Bofur stated tiredly but with a touch of his usual cheerfulness. “Meanin’ no offense of course.”

“None taken, Bofur. I’m quite eager to take a nap myself, preferably somewhere I won’t wake up with roots and rocks digging into my back and a pony chewing on my hair.”

“Could you just drop it?” Kíli whined from his spot at the back of the group. “It was an honest mistake! It was dark, Plum mistook your hair for hay, but she understands it was bad and she won’t do it again. Right, girl?” The prince patted his mount’s fuzzy neck, to which the pony responded by shaking her messy mane. “See? She knows it was wrong.”

Bilbo shook his head and bit his bottom lip to retain a comment about ponies and their wits – or lack thereof – as he very much doubted that Plum would remember how her ‘ball of hay’ had sprung up and begun shouting obscenities directed at her and her whole species that fine morning. “How come she never tried to snack on Fíli’s hair? Your brother’s head would put a sun-bathed wheat field to shame!”

Thorin’s youngest heir shrugged. “I guess she must have a liking for yours.”

“See, that’s exactly the kind of answer I get when I catch my cousin with her pockets full of my silver spoons,” Bilbo sighed, steering his mount left on the main path of Bagshot Row that slithered up the hill. “Poor Lobelia. She always thinks she can fool me.”

“Does she live around here? If so, and if that’s not too great an offense in hobbit customs, it would be our pleasure to trample her garden a bit,” Fíli offered with a small yet wild smirk meant for his younger brother.

Bilbo could not help but smile at the thought of the dwarven pair pouncing on tomatoes and stamping on flowerbeds while a horrified Lobelia screeched in the background from her window. “As enticing as it sounds, I must decline. She doesn’t live in Bagshot Row nor do I wish such an awful fate to befall her. She may be a greedy, rat-faced hobbit but she is still part of my family.”

“Your call.”

As they walked closer and closer to Bag End, Bilbo slowly grew worried at the deserted paths and general quiet surrounding the normally lively part of Hobbiton. Where had everyone gone to? Save for a few children who were too busy playing with mud to acknowledge them, the small group were the only living souls of Bagshot Row – or so it seemed. Even good Hamfast Gamgee who, if Bilbo’s memories were not failing him, liked to have tea reclined in a chair by his doorstep was missing from the scenery.

Dread filled Bilbo’s heart as his mind automatically jumped to the worst possible scenario. Had there been an attack, here, in the Shire? Certainly there had not, for doubtlessly there would be more fire and less living faunts involved. There had been nobody in the Party Field, so a wedding or a coming of age celebration was off the list as well. What, then?

As Bilbo’s mind wandered and the company neared the last turn that would place them in sight of Bag End, a distant buzz reached his ears. A fleeting yet growing sound, bringing to mind the confused and mismatched noises of a large crowd. Curiosity chased somber thoughts from the shireling’s head and as Snowball followed the path on that last turn, he saw them.

Dozens of hobbits scattered around Bag End. Sitting on the steps or the wooden benches, leaning against the doorway, talking, laughing, smoking. The round green door was wide open, a constant flow of furred feet crossing the threshold in both directions, suggesting an even greater amount of unexpected ‘guests’ were walking around inside the smial. The windows were open as well, all clean and spotless as voices poured out of Bungo’s home, some higher than others. Outside, on the grass near the garden, a large table littered with food was being happily plundered by hungry hands.

And all the while, Bilbo sat frozen in his saddle, unable to process what was unfolding before his eyes. In some deep recess of his mind, he was relieved that the reason the paths were empty were not of dark nature, yet… What was probably half of Hobbiton doing in his house?

Bofur, it seemed, had his own idea on the matter. “Bilbo, look! They’re throwin’ yeh a homecomin’ party!” the floppy-hatted toy-maker grinned.

“H-homecoming party?” Bilbo stammered, his eyes still glued to his doorstep where Saradoc Brandybuck was blowing smoke rings big enough for Thorin to wear as a crown. “But I-I-I never told anyone I was coming back!”

“Looks like they know anyway. Maybe Gandalf told them, who knows? There’s even a sign on the fence, though from here I can’t read it. Fíli, Kíli, what do yer young eyes see?”

As both heirs of Erebor squinted hard, Bilbo kept staring. Were they… were there really so many hobbits in Hobbiton happy to see him home? He had no idea he was so well-liked. True, he had gained a few friends with his prize-winning tomatoes and the children willingly went to him for fairy tales and cookies, but this was enormous. Throwing a party for him even though he hadn’t told a soul about his return must have required a great deal of organisation, from spying the roads to wiping up enough food to accommodate everyone at the last moment.

To say Bilbo was touched would be the understatement of this age. The warm joy settling in his heart opened his eyes to new details: the well-kept grass, the neatly-trimmed hedge along the fence, the impeccable windows. Bag End had been well looked after in his absence, probably thanks to Hamfast, and it delighted Bilbo to no end. They had thought of everything; the food, the ale, the housework, even down to the sign at the door!

“It says: ‘Auction today, by Mrs Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, with the help of Grubb, Grubb and Burrowes’,” Kíli drawled.

And wasn’t that a lovely to welcome someone who-

Wait, what?

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo sputtered indignantly, all traces of cheerfulness suddenly gone to the winds as he struggled to process what Kíli had read.

“I dare say they are auctioning off your property,” Thorin put in evenly, sitting very still in his own saddle. “It is safe to assume that we are not looking at a homecoming committee at all. Quite the contrary.”

The gears stood still in Bilbo’s brain, waiting, dreading the moment their host would register just what the dwarf had just said and his sanity would snap in two just as easily as twigs under a pony’s hooves.

He didn’t disappoint.

“That good-for-nothing, dirt-eating, nasty _rukhsul menu_!” Bilbo erupted at last, Khuzdul easily making its way past his lips as his face grew very hot. He was probably turning red, and he hadn’t meant to bellow, but the thought of his mother’s belongings being shipped off like common merchandise was enough to send him into a very cold pit of rage. And he didn’t particularly care if he was getting flabbergasted looks from his dwarven friends. “Wait until I get my hands on her!”

The dwarves could only stare as Bilbo slammed his feet into Snowball’s sides and the pony sprang forward, pounding holes into the path leading up to the most crowed hobbit hole in the Shire that day as he ran. A slight mist of dust blinded them for a moment, and when it disappeared Bilbo was too far up the hill to be called back.

“As much as I would have preferred for our arrival to be a discreet one, we should go after him,” Thorin rumbled. “Before he murders someone.”

“While I don’t think his cousin is in any danger, since she is ‘part of his family’, it would be wise indeed,” Fíli nodded with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Mumbles of agreement were shared and the dwarves started up the path but at a more leisurely pace. Thorin, in all honesty, never thought there was really a risk of his gentle-hearted Bilbo murdering anyone, after all, no matter how threatening his words had been.

Speaking of which…

“Which one of you taught him that curse?”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rukhsul menu - son/daughter of an orc


	13. Mad Baggins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this is where I start twisting the dates a tad. Nothing too drastic, don't worry, just little bits to help the story move along the way I want. I'm just making Hamfast and Drogo - and consequently, their kids - a little older than they should be ;) enjoy!

The blood pounding in Bilbo’s ears was a nice match to his mount’s merciless hooves as they hit the dirty path. At his side, Sting was beating a similar rhythm against his thigh, the sharp edge of the scabbard digging into Bilbo’s flesh with every powerful stride Snowball took on his way up Bagshot Row. The hobbit could feel beads of sweat rolling down his burning back, starting at the back of his neck and leaving a wet trail between his shoulder blades to die at the waistband of his pants. Damp curls were plastered to his forehead, courtesy of the mid-afternoon sun, hampering his eyesight, but Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to care.

They were auctioning Bag End off. That bunch of smooth-footed rats was auctioning off his belongings, his _parents_ ’ belongings for Yavanna’s sake! Not that he particularly cared about doilies or armchairs anymore, not after everything he had been through – he didn’t plan on bringing the whole of Bag End over to Erebor, anyway – but they were still precious keepsakes and he had a different fate in mind for them.

He would agree to his father’s armchair spending the next few years in one of his closest cousins’ living room, waiting patiently by the fire for another bedtime story. He would have been happy to hand over his mother’s mementos to those of her siblings who were still alive - death had claimed most of Bilbo’s uncles and aunts over the last few years – and do the same with his father’s books. His uncles Longo and Bingo Baggins would be easy to find, in the northern part of Hobbiton, and if Aunts Linda and Belba still lived in Overhill he would find them. He would.

But to see his belongings scattered all across the Shire? That was something he would not allow.

One swift press of his ankles and Snowball went flying over the fence, landing with a thud on the grass where many hobbits were sitting around and chatting loudly. In the midst of his anger, Bilbo had quite forgotten that he couldn’t ride like a dwarf, not with his short legs, which was why he always chose to avoid jumps. As such, Snowball’s leap over the wooden gate almost managed to throw him off his saddle and send him toppling to the ground below.

Perhaps pure rage fuelled his muscles, or maybe it was the collective gasp that met his sudden entrance, but Bilbo determinately hung onto his mount’s mane and succeeded in staying upright. He ignored the stares, nudging his pony up the few stairs that led up to the round green door where Saradoc was still sitting, his eyes wide and mouth stuck in a wordless cry of astonishment. His pipe was held loosely in one hand; the loud-mouthed Brandybuck had probably been bringing it to his lips before Bilbo’s surprise arrival.

Well, this angered hobbit certainly was in no mood to apologize.

Bilbo brought his pony to a stop just short of the threshold and slid to the ground with more ease than he had ever shown. He could hear rushed murmurs and high-pitched gasps in the crowd, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Out of the way, Saradoc,” Bilbo snarled as soon as his feet hit the soft dirt and flat rocks that he had treaded upon a thousand times ever since he was a child. “There are some matters that need to be settled, apparently.”

Still at a loss for words, though his mouth was now trying to articulate them without actually producing a single sound, Saradoc gathered enough sense to scoot over and let Bilbo through the door.

Indoors, Bag End was even more crowded. Rows and rows of chubby faces met Bilbo’s gaze, some familiar but most of them completely unknown to him. Those who knew him were easily recognizable; their eyes grew to reach the size of teapots when they saw him, or flabbergasted squeaks escaped their mouths. Those who had never seen him in their whole life just graced him with a sidelong glance, generally ignoring him or merely grunting if Bilbo happened to jostle them in his haste to find the heart of the problem.

The rooms had been emptied of all furniture and items. This much was noticeable, regardless of the large crowd that was currently – but not for long, if Belladonna’s son had any say in it – occupying the halls. Empty shelves were lining the walls, lonely survivors of the merciless campaign that had rid Bag End of its content. Even the fireplace had been thoroughly cleaned of ash! It felt so eerie, walking through those rooms he had been living in not two years prior and finding them so changed, so foreign. So impersonal.

His mind blank, Bilbo searched for his dear cousins who were doubtlessly to blame for the awful ordeal taking place in his old home. The tiles were cold under his feet, but his eyes were burning with untold promises of violence. Those who had recognized him and felt his wrath were sensible enough to take their leave; the others were either too busy chatting or too stupid to understand that it would be in their best interest to flee Bagshot Row for the remainder of the day and just find another hobbit hole to be in.

He found the dreadful couple in the master bedroom. As could be expected, the room was devoid of furniture save for a few makeshift benches where all kinds of hobbits were talking loudly.

Though not quite enough to cover the heated quarrel taking place on the other side of the room.

“You will stop this madness immediately, Lobelia, do you hear me?” a hobbit with wild, black curls was hissing threateningly, his closed fists shaking on either side of him. He was rather tall, even for a hobbit, and Bilbo instantly identified him as Drogo Baggins, son of Fosco Baggins, his dear second-cousin. For one second anger gave way to fondness at the sight of the younger lad.

Only to be replaced by fury once more when shrill shrieks were produced by Bilbo’s other less than pleasant cousin in the room.

“Or what, Drogo? You will make me? I would like to see you try!” Lobelia snorted. She was wearing that hideous summer dress, the yellow one with the ribbons at the back. She looked like a plump chick with ruffled feathers. “Everybody knows you could not lift a rock to save your life!”

“Even if that was true, I make a living out of lifting rocks and even heavier objects,” a stouter, square-shouldered hobbit bit back, crossing his arms over his chest. Bilbo could not remember a day he had seen Hamfast Gamgee glare so much at something other than bothersome weeds. “You would be out of Bag End quicker than you can say ‘betrayal’, Lobelia.”

“This is no betrayal! Otho is Bilbo’s next of kin, it’s only normal that-”

“You have no proof that he is dead!” Hamfast bellowed, his voice becoming the loudest sound in the room and diming every conversation around. “For all we know, he might be alive out there, planning to return, and to what? Two vultures living in his home, the home his own father built for his family, his belongings strewn around Hobbiton. What will you tell him then, Lobelia, when he walks through the door?”

“Yes, what will you tell me then, Lobelia?” Bilbo asked loudly with repressed rage as he pushed his way through the last row of stunned hobbits watching the quarrel with rapt attention.

The three hobbits stopped their bickering and turned to meet the newcomer. While Hamfast’s and Drogo’s mouths fell open in a stunned, yet amazed gasp, Lobelia’s expression could only be qualified as horrified. Quickly, the woman hid the heavy book she was clutching in her well-manicured hands behind her back. She must have grabbed it from the table in the corner – Bilbo’s kitchen table, he noticed – where lamps and cooking pots were piled up together, awaiting the highest bidder.

Eerie silence was filling the room, all eyes drawn to the dishevelled, quite dirty hobbit with that mop of damp curls standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed.

“Well?” Bilbo growled, his hazelnut eyes never leaving Lobelia’s. Nobody could fault him for secretly enjoying the flash of fear in his cousin’s orbs. “What would you tell me? I’m burning to know.”

Slowly, nervously, the plethora of gazes switched from Bilbo’s tense figure to Lobelia’s quivering one. When she noticed that fact, she emitted a little squeak and almost dropped the book. “Y-you… you… you were supposed to be dead!” she sputtered.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I feel very much alive, Lobelia,” Bilbo snapped.

“You were gone for s-so long, we assumed that-”

“One year,” Bilbo cut in, his fingers playing drums on his elbows as he struggled to keep from clenching them into fists. “I leave for one single, little year, and you deem it long enough to turn Bag End upside down and claim it as your own. Did you really think I would abandon the house that was my home for fifty years without so much as a note?”

Suddenly, fear dissipated in Lobelia’s eyes, soon to be replaced by scorn and disdain as the hobbit assumed one of her favorite posture: defiant chin up and eyes looking down her snout-like nose. “And how was I to know? One day you are walking around the market and the next you are running away with a pack of, of mangy dwarves! Nobody knew how to react, or what to do. You never told anyone you were planning to come back one day. For us, you were as good as dead.”

“If it’s of any relief to you, I can safely say that I almost died a dozen times on this crazy journey. But I escaped mostly unscathed, so you still have a Baggins to answer to where Bag End is concerned.”

“A Baggins?” Lobelia’s grating little laugh reminded Bilbo of warg claws being dragged down a glass panel. “Have you looked at yourself recently, dear cousin? You look a lot more like a feral beast pulled from the woods than a Baggins.” Her disgusted eyes racked up and down Bilbo’s body, taking in the fur-rimmed coat and mithril mail with disdain. Her scornful gaze lingered a bit on his legs and abused feet, the sight of them making her lips twitch as though she found them to be the most repulsive thing she had ever seen. “Or perhaps you look like one of _them_. Is that how you wish to be seen, then? A dirty, beardless dwarf.”

The fury that had been bubbling right under the surface up until now finally boiled over the brim of Bilbo’s mind. Fists shaking at his sides, the Dragonriddler walked forward and white-hot rage was imprinted on the tiled floor with every step he took.

“For months I have been on the road,” he started lowly, dangerously so. “I slept little and ate even less than that. For the first few days those were the only two bothersome things I had to deal with. Then came the trolls, the orcs, the wargs, the goblins and the spiders. I killed more than my share as we travelled to the Eastern Reaches, I have more blood on my hands than I am comfortable with. I have talked to a fire-breathing drake and lived to tell the tale, which I have been told is not a feat many can assert. I will not, _dear cousin_ , allow you to speak about me thusly, nor will I stand by idle as you insult my friends.” At that point, Bilbo was positively seething, and Lobelia looked like she would gladly become part of the wall. “They have bled with me, fought with me, protected me when darkness threatened to overwhelm us, putting their very lives on the line to do so. _They are more worthy of being called kin than you ever will be, you rotting pile of orc dung!_ ”

The last part ended up in a shout as gasps and yelps were pulled from the on looking crowd. Bilbo was only a few feet away from Lobelia and her shaking knees by the time he was done with his tirade. The fear was back in her eyes, increased tenfold, and Bilbo could feel her terror quite keenly. He felt it more acutely than the cold tiles under his soles, or the sweat rolling down his back, or even Sting’s finely-crafted hilt between his fingers…

Sting?

Bilbo looked down and was overwhelmed with mortification. At some point in his angry screed, he had drawn his sword and pointed it at Lobelia without even realizing it. The short blade was gleaming in the stuffy room, its sharp edges spotless and ready to slice even into thin air. Scratched and specked with dirt, the hobbit’s fingers were clutching the elven weapon’s hilt with bone-breaking force, his gnawed nails turning white from the strain.

Swiftly, Bilbo returned Sting to its sheath. But the blow, non-physical as it was, had been dealt.

“You have truly become one of them, then,” Lobelia breathed, her terrorized gaze still glued to where the pointy end of a sword had been threatening her seconds before. Slowly, it trailed up to settle on Bilbo’s uneasy eyes. “You deserve the name they have given you. You truly are Mad Baggins.”

Her words triggered something in the crowd, as hobbits began whispering amongst themselves. The word ‘mad’ lashed out like a whip every now and then, carving yet another slash across Bilbo’s heart.

Mad Baggins. And here he had thought, believed for a few foolish moments, that his neighbors and friends were waiting on him with a homecoming party. That they valued him enough to view his return as a happy occurrence. Mad Baggins. Gandalf had been right, all along. He had changed. He was not the same well-mannered, good-natured Baggins who had left his hobbit hole to go on an adventure all those long, pain-filled months before.

Mad Baggins. The world started spinning a little, from lack of food or fatigue Bungo’s son did not know, but dizziness was slowly overtaking him. He needed air. He needed out of this stuffy, suffocating room he had once called home but was now empty of good memories and full of scornful glares and pointing fingers. He needed… he needed…

“I believe it would be best if everyone stepped out of this smial,” a deep, familiar voice rumbled calmly from behind Bilbo. “Except for the smial’s owner and his friends, of course. Does this sound objectionable to anyone?”

Even the dumbest hobbit could not miss the hidden threat concealed beneath those civil words. Nor the large sword strapped to Thorin’s back. Obediently, the crowd began to fill out, casting uncertain glances at the broad-shouldered dwarf whose piercing blue eyes were busy burning holes through hobbit heads.

“And I expect every piece of furniture, every single item belonging in this house to be back in their rightful place come morning. I will retrieve the missing goods personally,” Thorin growled, staring pointedly at Lobelia when she tried to pass by him. When he grunted sharply, she yelped and gave him a wide berth as she scurried out of the room. Arguing with a dwarf, especially one so unaccommodating, was apparently out of her field of expertise.

Before long, the only beings left in the room were Hamfast, Drogo and Bilbo, as well as Thorin himself. The former two were giving their fellow hobbits hesitant looks and, although they were practically sure to be seen as ‘friends’ by Bilbo, often their eyes strayed to Thorin to see if their presence was wanted or not.

But the dwarf’s mind was set on other matters. Slowly, almost as one would approach a wounded beast, Thorin crossed the few steps that separated him from Bilbo.

The hobbit’s body was trembling, from anger or despair Bilbo did not know, but he couldn’t help it. He was vaguely aware of Thorin standing behind him, and when the dwarf’s large warm hand came down on his shoulder, a dam broke.

Bilbo whirled around and buried his face in Thorin’s blue coat, his hands fisting into the coarse fabric at the King’s sides. As he hid from the outside world like a fauntling shying away from his lessons, he was comforted to feel Thorin’s hand slide up to rest on the back of his neck. Bilbo let himself be held for a few moments, swallowing bitter tears and fighting the persistent stinging in his eyes. He willed himself to be strong in the face of his intended and his – only, seemingly – two remaining friends in Hobbiton.

Not giving a chance for uncomfortable silence to take hold in his deserted bedroom, Bilbo twisted his head to look up at Thorin without dislodging the digits stroking soothing pattern into the skin of his neck. “That wretched woman must be related to Smaug,” he growled in a poor attempt at joking. “Foul-tempered, home-invading beasts, the both of them.”

Thorin indulged his small intended and allowed a tiny smile to pass his lips. “We are here, now. Your home is safe.”

“What is left of it, you mean.” Bilbo sighed and pulled back reluctantly. He mourned the loss of Thorin’s warmth, but they had an audience and he did not want to push his luck with the dwarven King. “Where are the others?”

“Outside, with the ponies. They are seeing everyone off the premises. I had originally planned to stay with them but then I heard you shout and I decided to step in.”

“I am glad you did. I was beginning to lose my mind in here.” Bilbo stepped back further, turning around to face Hamfast and Drogo who were still waiting anxiously by the window. “Good thing I still have a few friends left in Hobbiton, as well.”

Bilbo’s wavering grin was enough to relieve the tension in the room and the two other hobbits approached with smiles of their own.

Hamfast hadn’t changed much since the day Bilbo had fled Bag End with nothing more than an undersized backpack and a signed contract. The gardener had been kneeling in mud, riding a hedge of invading weed, when Bilbo had barrelled past him and out of Bagshot Row, answering with only a few confusing words when Hamfast had hollered after him. Same mop of light brown hair, same smiling eyes on Bilbo’s neighbor’s face.

The same could not be said about Drogo. While his plumpness was the result of his dear wife’s cooking, the lad had gained a few lines on his forehead in the last few years that separated Bilbo’s last visit from now that could only be attributed to the upbringing of a young child. The dark bags under his blue eyes spoke volumes about his son’s energy; Bilbo had witnessed the boy’s carefree dynamism on his third birthday.

“How have you two been faring?” Bilbo asked politely, more composed now that Thorin was by his side and the irksome gathering of hobbits was gone.

“Quite well, Mister Bilbo, one year is too short a span for anything to happen in the Shire,” Hamfast jested. “Well, nothing as interesting as fighting dragons, that is. But if you must know, we’ve had a nice Mid-Summer Party last year and the harvest was exceedingly good. I have had a lot of work with the gardens these last few weeks, the missus is rather cross at me for it, as a result.” Hamfast paused for a chuckle. “She’ll be fine once the little one is finally here.”

“The little one?” Thorin asked quizzically, tilting his head to the side and voicing Bilbo’s thoughts before the hobbit had any opportunity to.

Hamfast puffed out his chest, like a proud rooster about to burst into song. “Bell’s due any day now. We’re hoping for a little girl, since we’re not planning on having another one after that pregnancy, it was not as smooth as when she was expecting Sam- what are you doing?”

Before Bilbo could prevent it, Thorin had stepped forward and clasped both of Hamfast’s shoulders in his large hands. Towering over the gardener, the dwarf graced him with a solemn look.

“Please accept my sincere congratulations,” Thorin said deeply, his rumbling voice echoing off in the empty room. “May Mahal bless your family and protect your child from harm. Should you need anything, you need but ask and see it seen to.”

“Erm… thank you, I guess?” Hamfast replied timidly, one nervous eye trailing to Bilbo in a silent plea for help.

Which was granted when the shireling sighed and walked over to the pair. “Thorin, I am sure Hamfast appreciates your thoughtfulness, but there is really no need for this,” Bilbo explained softly as he plucked his suitor’s hands from Hamfast’s frame. The poor fellow had begun to turn slightly white in the face from apprehension, and who could blame him?

Thorin took a step back but shot Bilbo a confused look. “Is the birth of a child not a cause for happiness in the Shire?” the dwarf asked carefully, clumsily concealing his dismay.

“Yes, yes of course it is, it’s just… You are making too big a deal out of it, is all.” One hand still squeezing Thorin’s wrist, Bilbo turned to his fellow hobbits. “Sorry, Hamfast, as you might know children are few and far between in dwarven societies. They are… their greatest treasure, I believe. More so than gold,” he finished, looking up and into Thorin’s eyes. He did not want to speak in the King’s stead, but he needed to steer the conversation in a direction that wouldn’t lead to misunderstandings for both parties.

“He speaks the truth,” Thorin finally said, his eyes leaving Bilbo’s to settle on Hamfast. “We value children over the most precious gems, mostly because they are rarer even than mithril. If you deem my words improper or my actions discourteous, I offer my deepest apologies.”

“Now there’ll be no need for that,” Hamfast said hurriedly with a dismissive yet friendly gesture. He then flashed the dwarf a tentative smile, though it was still a bit uneasy around the edges. “I’ll admit to being a bit… surprised there, but who am I to turn down well-wishes when they are so nicely voiced? Thank you, Mister… Thorin, is it?” Suddenly the gardener’s eyes opened wide. “By the Green Lady, my old Pa would box my ears! I haven’t even introduced myself! My name is Hamfast Gamgee, pleased to meet you.”

“I am Thorin, son of Thráin.” The dwarf bowed low to the small hobbit. “At your service.”

The ‘King of Erebor’ part was left completely aside. Bilbo chose not to comment on it and saved his questions for later, when they would be alone.

“As we have breached the topic of introductions, this is Drogo Baggins, my cousin on my father’s side,” Bilbo said, encouraging the younger hobbit forward. Drogo stepped forth and nervously responded to Thorin’s bow with a nod. “Happily married to Primula Brandybuck and young father as well. Is that still accurate, Drogo?”

“Ah, yes,” the younger hobbit assented, glancing over at Thorin when his son was mentioned. Maybe he feared being pounced on much like Hamfast had been. “Prim and Frodo are fine, they are visiting my father on the other side of Hobbiton. I think he needed time with his grandson, now more than ever.”

“What is it you mean?” Bilbo asked with a light frown.

Drogo’s shoulders heaved and he sighed. That gesture alone made the lad look years older than he actually was. “I don’t suppose you have been told, after all you were on the road. Last week I came to Hobbiton because my mother was really sick and was asking to see Frodo. Turned out she only wanted to see her grandson one last time before she passed away, yesterday.”

A spike of empathy pierced right through Bilbo’s heart. He had met Ruby Bolger on a few occasions, at weddings or birthday parties. A nice lady, always hiding sweets in her pockets for the little ones and speaking in soft tones. He hoped death had claimed her gently.

“I’m staying a bit to take care of funeral arrangements,” Drogo pursued, his downcast eyes casting an even darker shadow across the bags hanging under them. “So this morning, when I walked past the market and heard talk about an auction taking place at Bag End, I had to come and check for myself. I was so… terrified, that you might be dead too.”

Drogo almost chocked on the end of his sentence, prompting Bilbo to wrap a comforting arm around his shoulders. “I’m here, lad, I’m here. And I am glad to see you, though it must be in such dire circumstances.” The younger hobbit slumped a bit in the one-armed embrace, his added weight making Bilbo’s worn-out muscles scream in protest. But the savior of Erebor would not be swayed. “Would you like to come over for tea tomorrow? I would enjoy seeing Primula and little Frodo again. Bring your father as well, if he feels up to it.” When he felt Drogo’s nod against his shoulder, Bilbo craned his neck to look at the third hobbit in the room. “You too, Hamfast. Your family is welcome here, at all times.”

“Much obliged, Mister Bilbo, I’ll be sure to tell the wife,” the gardener grinned. “Won’t have to tell her twice, too, she’s quite fond of you. Still has that storybook you gave her when Halfred was born and still reads it to the little ones before bed, she does. She’ll be glad you’re back amongst us.”

At that point, Bilbo almost told Hamfast that his return was temporary and that Bag End would soon be devoid of his presence anew. But he held back. There would be time for this, when he was rested and properly fed and didn’t have a mourning relative tucked against his chest. For now, he only desired peace and quiet.

Drogo pulled back from his cousin’s hold and, though watery, the small smile that was painted on his features instilled some light into his otherwise sullen eyes. “We will leave you be, then,” he told Bilbo softly. “You must be tired from your journey.”

“You have no idea,” Bilbo confirmed with a smile of his own. Even the muscles around his mouth were strained.

“Do you need anything?” Hamfast asked. “Food, blankets, anything? Nights are warm enough, but-”

“We will be fine. The furniture should be back by noon tomorrow and we still have some food left in our packs. I’ll go to the market in the morning but for tonight, we’ll make do.” Bilbo glanced at Thorin and was met with a nod of approval, to which he responded with a fond smile. “We always have.”

If any of the two hobbits noticed the exchange, they chose not to comment on it.

As Hamfast and Drogo exited the bedroom and made their way to the entrance hall, Bilbo’s voice caught up to them. “Could you please tell the boys outside to leave the ponies in the backyard and come in? The poor lads must be hungry.”

The hobbits shared a puzzled look, but eventually they resumed walking and were soon out of the smial.

When he heard the door click shut at their heels, Bilbo swiftly leaned back against a wall to take some weight off his legs. He was staggering a bit, courtesy of his wobbly knees, and some time to think would be nice.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked gently, coming to stand beside his intended.

“ _That_ was the furthest thing from a homecoming party if there ever was one,” the hobbit breathed. “Remind me to kick Bofur when I see him.”

“You would just hurt your feet,” Thorin rumbled affectionately, snaking an arm around Bilbo’s smaller shoulders. He brought him to his chest for an embrace that would certainly vanish as soon as the rest of the company waltzed in. “I like them the way they are.”

“Hairless and dirty?”

“Whole, you silly creature,” Thorin grunted, pushing his forehead against Bilbo’s for a warm nuzzle. “Though, now that you mention it, you are indeed in dire need of a bath.”

“Uncouth dwarf.” Bilbo boldly tilted his head up to capture Thorin’s lips in a chaste kiss. Strength was flowing back into his bones already, fuelled by the warmth emanating from the dwarven body so close to his. “Come, then. Let us see what scraps might have been forgotten in the kitchen or the pantry. There are dwarves outside who need feeding.”

“Agreed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The evening saw Bilbo’s living room littered with bedrolls and blankets, mainly around the hearth where a merry fire was popping and cracking. In the far corner, under a window, saddles and packs had been piled up, waiting for morning and a more appropriate storing place.

In the end, there had been nothing left in the kitchen or the pantry, which in itself was not very surprising. Dust and spiders had claimed the empty shelves as their kingdom, layering it with webs and dead moths.

So they had turned their packs inside out and gathered what they had left. Dried fruit and nuts, they had saved up a decent amount, one handful each at the very least. But only a few tendrils of dried beef remained from their stop in Bree, as well as some hard bread. A meager meal if there ever was one, but it would do until they could get some decent food from the market, in the morning.

And Bilbo would make sure he emptied at least four stalls before coming back to Bag End. Maybe he would have need for a second pantry, the one he had turned into a reading room after his mother’s death. He had witnessed first-hand what a pack of starving dwarves could do to a storeroom.

“Two mouthfuls and it’s done,” Dwalin grunted, chewing on the last of his dried fruit. Sitting on his bedroll with his blankets across his shoulders, the warrior looked like an oversized pouting child. “I thought food was never a problem with y’Hobbits.”

“Will you shut your mouth?” Thorin snarled, a chunk of dried beef peeking from between his teeth. The dwarf was sitting on Bilbo’s bedroll, one shoulder pressed against the hobbit’s. “You have been through worse, we all have. You will sleep it off and I don’t want to hear you for the remainder of the evening.”

“Thorin, he meant nothing by it, I’m sure,” Bilbo sighed, picking at his own bowl of nuts with little appetite. “Don’t overreact. Besides, he’s right, so far I’ve been a poor host.” He raised his eyes and watched as Dwalin stretched and laid down on his ragged bedroll. “We are going to the market first thing in the morning, I’ll get you a whole batch of cookies, would you like that?”

Silence, then a soft grunt. Dwalin’s way of nodding his approval.

“You should not speak to him thusly,” Thorin said quietly when Bilbo gave a satisfied hum. “He is no young child, you do not have to bow to his every whim.”

“Oh, hush you, he deserves it. You all deserve a good meal and we are having one in the morning, even if I have to die in the process of making it.” Bilbo rolled his eyes at Thorin’s offended hiss. “That last part was a joke.”

“You know what is a joke as well?” Fíli raised his head from the floor where he had thrown his bedroll alongside his brother’s. “Your cousin’s clothes. What did she dress up as? The Sun? Kíli couldn’t look straight at her.”

“Almost blinded me,” the archer mumbled drowsily, his eyes already closed and his mind on his way to sleep. “She shone brighter than Smaug the Golden, and she has the same snake-like eyes, too. They almost burned right through me and poor Plum. Was she brought up by fire drakes?”

“Do you know, I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Bilbo yawned, putting his now empty bowl aside and stretching his weary back. “With the way she invaded my house and coveted my belongings, I’m tempted to say she must have some scales under those hideous skirts. And now I’m thinking about what lies under my cousin’s skirts. Mahal help me, I’m going to be sick.”

Those of the dwarves who were still awake – save for Thorin, who kept his mirth to a minimum – dissolved into laughter. The brothers clutched at one another, muffling their guffaws with their fists, while Bofur choked on his pipe. Even Dwalin was chuckling into his bedroll, his big shoulders shaking under his blanket. Regardless of his fatigue, Bilbo found himself joining in on the fun before long.

The moon rose high, the fire burned low, but even as the night unfolded strangled gasps of ‘Lobelia the Flower Drake’ could be heard pouring out of Bag End’s round windows, accompanied by throaty chuckles and high-pitched, definitely hobbit-y giggles.

Mad Baggins, indeed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap: Frodo comes in!


	14. Misplaced in the Market

 

“Oh, come on, Thorin!” Bilbo chided as he dipped his feet in cold water. He made a slight face, but there was no way around it. He could not go to the market with mud spattered across his calves. He had to wash them, even though the old cooking pot he had found in a cupboard was not as practical as his old bathtub. That specific piece of furniture had yet to reappear.

“There is no need for this,” Thorin countered from his spot, sitting on the windowsill with a handful of chestnuts that he plopped into his mouth every now and then. The morning sun shining through the glass cast a warm glow upon his black and silver locks, taking Bilbo’s breath away if the hobbit’s eyes lingered on the fine figure of his beloved for too long.

His lovely, faithful, stubborn beloved.

“It must reek something awful in there, why don’t you take your boots off for a good wash?”

“I will. But not now.”

“Oh, Thorin! Why? I assure you, it feels so good you won’t even remember why you didn’t want to do it.” The feeling of clean, fresh water bathing his feet and soothing every single cut and nick with cold goodness. For good measure, Bilbo curled his toes underwater and released a moan that was almost a purr.

Well, at least now he seemed to have Thorin’s undivided attention. Praise Yavanna for small victories.

“What is bothering you, anyway?” Bilbo asked casually, snatching a rag he had found by the sink. The fabric was a bit on the sooty side, but then again, anything would be cleaner than his feet at that point. “Is there something wrong with your feet?”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with my feet,” Thorin growled moodily, shuffling the chestnuts that remained in his palm.

“What, then? Why are you so reluctant to… Oh. Could it be?” A mischievous smirk made its way across Bilbo’s lips and he looked at the dwarf sitting across the room very much like a cat would eye a canary. “Could it be that Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain is… self-conscious?”

“Poppycock,” the dwarf hissed, borrowing one of Bilbo’s favorite swear words for the occasion. “I will not tolerate such foul allegations against my person.”

“But you are, aren’t you? Self-conscious, that is.”

Only silence met his well-aimed remark, and Bilbo smirked. This was an unexpected but delightful turn. For the past year, he had been the one feeling foreign and out of place in a company of thirteen dwarves. Where his comrades were all sharp edges and tough skin, he had been rendered soft and podgy by years of dwelling in the Shire, with food a-plenty and no real care for hard work under the Sun.

“You have no reason to feel uneasy, I don’t care if your feet are… Well, come to think of it, I have never seen your feet,” Bilbo thought out loud, twisting the rag between his toes to get rid of the dirt there. Dear Yavanna, did that black smudge really come from one single swipe? “But you, on the other hand, see mine every day.”

“You are a hobbit.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “And that is a fine observation if there ever was one. Still doesn’t explain why you are so reluctant to unlace your boots and give your feet a proper cleaning, which is something they must be in dire need of, dare I say.”

“Very well,” Thorin rumbled, getting up from the windowsill with all the good grace of a sentenced prisoner about to have his head cut. Before, Bilbo would have felt uncomfortable, being on the receiving end of that annoyed glare, but he had grown accustomed to his suitor’s sour temper. “Let’s get this done and over with.”

Bilbo scooted over on the small bench he had found that morning next to his gate, alongside a few others of his belongings. Apparently Thorin’s threat that he would personally seek out missing items had not fallen on deaf ears, for Bag End’s front yard had been progressively littered with a large range of objects, furniture and tableware tossed in alike, all night long. And while books and forks were easy to carry, Bilbo had been glad for the sturdy backs of Dwarves when it had come to dealing with larger, heavier items.

Such as the long dinner table that Dwalin and Fíli could be heard seething about from the other side of Bag End. How a bunch of soft-handed hobbits had managed to manoeuver the wooden monstrosity out of the smial in the first place was beyond any of the dwarves’ comprehension.

With a resigned look, Thorin sat down next to Bilbo on the bench and bent to unlace his leather boots. They were curious, intricate things now that the shireling could take a proper look at them. Dark and lined with fur, they had a ludicrous amount of buckles running up their sides, making them seem very bothersome to put on and off. Perhaps that was the reason why Thorin was not inclined to remove them often.

Or perhaps not, since it only took a few twists of the wrist and the leather straps loosened as quickly as Bombur could gobble down a plate of pork chops. With twin thuds, the boots slipped off and felt to the ground where they crumpled quite miserably, and if boots could sigh in relief this is what it would look like. Off came the socks, then, forming two little puddles of murky white wool on Bag End’s tiled floor to reveal…

“You said you did not care, so kindly stop staring,” Thorin growled as he rolled his pant legs up.

“But Thorin, they… Oh dear, they are so smooth! And small! Your boots must be very thick to conceal those wee little things.” In spite of the dwarf’s indignant hiss, Bilbo reached down and ran his fingers underneath one of the dirty appendages. Soft skin met his touch, running all along Thorin’s sole and only broken by the occasional rough patch brought on by long walks or hard work. Only a few wisps of black hair adorned the top of the dwarven foot, even less so than what newborn hobbits were graced with.

It amused Bilbo to no end. Dismissing Thorin’s growl, his free hand dipped down to grab his intended’s other foot. It felt just as smooth as its counterpart, just as sharp-edged, from the sturdy bones of the ankles and down the strings of gnarled muscle to the pads of the dwarven toe-

Seized by surprise, Bilbo sharply drew his hand back to his side and away from Thorin’s right foot, allowing his eyes to follow the same trail his fingers had. It had been no dream; one toe was missing. The smallest one, and in its stead stretched a patch of ragged scar tissue. And not just that, but half of the adjacent toe was gone as well, as though cut away by the bite of an axe.

“How?” Bilbo breathed, too dumbstruck to unlatch his sight from the mutilated foot. He did look up ultimately when Thorin shoved it underwater, with no little amount of irritation.

“Forging accident,” came the curt reply. “My hammer fell from the table and crushed my foot. The healer deemed my toe unsalvageable and removed it.”

That was not good. The dwarf looked like a hare ready to flee, and Bilbo would not be surprised if he did. Agreeing to bare his feet was Thorin’s way of opening up and, as it turned out, showing Bilbo a glimpse of his past life. The last thing the hobbit wanted was for him to clam up once more and take offense.

“The hammer smashed through even your steel caps?” Bilbo asked, reaching out to clasp Thorin’s bare knee. A few inches up, and his fingers could easily slither under the rolled-up pant leg and skim along a muscled dwarven thigh. Bilbo quickly dismissed those thoughts.

“As a matter of fact, I only started wearing steel caps after that accident. I was young and reckless, at the time,” Thorin mumbled, watching as his movements brought ripples to the surface of the already dirty water.

Bilbo grinned and gave Thorin’s knee a heartfelt pat. “Now I see where Kíli gets that from. The reckless part, I mean, I can’t imagine you being young and carefree at any point in your life, you brooding lump.”

The jest hit its mark and pulled a weak smile from Thorin, who picked up the rag left by Bilbo on the bench and started dutifully scrubbing at his feet. The shireling mentally sighed in relief and prided himself on his ability to turn what most would see as a discourteous comment into a spirit-lifting remark.

“Do you wish for the whole company to accompany us to the market?” the dwarf asked casually, frowning at a stubborn black spot on his ankle where the inside of his leather boot had rubbed against his skin for a long period of time.

“No, that would be pointless,” Bilbo answered, drying his feet off with one of their dirty blankets. A bit of laundry would be most welcome after his pantry was properly replenished. “These are not the Lone-Lands or another place crawling with dreadful creatures. This is Hobbiton, where the worst being wandering about is named Lobelia and although she could best even a feral warg with her growls, she is no real threat. No need to travel in packs.”

Thorin shot him a curious look. “Very well,” he said then, his voice a low rumble in the silent room. “We will do as you wish. But I must specify that my line of thoughts was directed towards additional help for carrying supplies, not necessarily for fighting.”

“Oh. Of course. Well…” Bilbo cleared his throat, feeling quite stupid. Of course Thorin would know the Shire wasn’t dangerous to roam at any given time of the day or night. “I was planning to take a pony, but if your nephews feel up to it, we could ask them. They must be getting tired of Dwalin shouting at them.”

“I would wager they are, indeed. Let us not tarry then, lest we only find empty stalls.”

“A hobbit market can be many things, dearest, but ‘empty’ is never one of them.”

 

* * *

 

 

Seldom had Bilbo’s words been so true.

Thorin realized this one hour later, as he struggled not to step on anyone’s feet in the crowded alleys between stalls. He had stopped feeling sorry after the first five times he had crushed bare toes under his boots and his victims had scurried away without a care for his apologies. Too scared of a hairy dwarf or too polite to mention that they had just gotten stepped on, Thorin would never know.

Wheelbarrows and crates were tricky to dodge, as well, especially when they were thrust directly under his steps. How many carrots and onions the King almost kicked to the other side of the marketplace, he had lost count, and he envied Bilbo for his ability to just saunter out of the way with those thick-padded feet of his. Though absent from Hobbiton for well over one year, his intended seemed as comfortable here as a fish that had never left its river.

Thorin took some relief in the sight of his nephews. On either side of Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli tried their very best to keep up with their undersized future uncle and were having a hard time as well. Perhaps even more so, for each was balancing two heavy bags while Thorin’s arms remained empty for the time being. Which was prone to change rather quickly, if the glint in Bilbo’s eyes as the shireling studied this morning’s arrival of fish was any indication.

To say the least, Thorin had been surprised by the amount of money needed to purchase food in Hobbiton. Or rather, the lack thereof; it was likely that a handful of coin would be sufficient to buy the whole market, stalls and all, with the prices being so low. Even more surprising had been the other hobbits’ behavior towards Bilbo: most of them were friendly enough, offering the former burglar and his three dwarves polite smiles and a few words of greeting. After the way they had barged into Bag End and thrown everyone out, Thorin had expected more glares that they were currently getting.

Not to say that there were none of those, of course. Once in a while, a halfling or two could be spotted shooting curious glances their way from the side-lines, only to avert their eyes quickly when Thorin’s piercing gaze crossed theirs. In some dark recess of his mind, it pleased the dwarf to know that he still could scare some people into showing respect – halfing though they may be, there was no such thing as a small victory.

Still, he liked those dark looks far better than he enjoyed the way that lass was so very openly displaying her bosom as she showed Bilbo which type of fish would be better suited for an evening fry-up. Obviously, that lady knew how to ‘sell her goods’.

A sudden pang of possessiveness shot through Thorin’s heart and he felt compelled to step closer until he was standing directly next to Bilbo. The nod he gave the saleswoman was polite enough, but he was fairly certain that his warning carried through his eyes. And rightly so, for the lass immediately straightened up and set to wrapping the trout Bilbo had chosen.

“So fish’s off the list,” Bilbo thought out loud, counting off their purchases with his fingers. “Fruit and some greens as well, and you two young lads can wipe that grimace off your faces, this is very healthy and just what you need. We’ll make a stop for a few eggs and some bread, but first I suppose a bit of meat would be welcome as well?”

“You are spoiling us,” Thorin rumbled affectionately, accepting the rather large parcel from the hobbit lass with a word of thanks. “At least let me pay for the meat, you have spent enough money today as it is. Especially considering we are already invading your home.”

“Nonsense, Thorin,” Bilbo scoffed with a dismissive gesture once he was done handing a few coins to a bewildered vendor and thanking her for the fish. “What a poor host I would be if I didn’t take care of my guests with the attention they rightly deserve. Besides, you don’t have to worry about money, you gave me enough gold to live twenty lives in the Shire and never suffer from an empty pantry.”

“Should I worry about you abandoning us to lead a lazy, fat life as the richest hobbit west of the Misty Mountains?”

“I swear, dearest, sometimes I hear words coming out of your mouth but it sounds like you are just begging me to slap you hard across the face.”

Thorin chuckled and obediently trudged along with his new, funny-smelling burden as the most important hobbit in his life turned heels and made his way through the curly-haired crowd. He winced a bit when the heat of a hundred other bodies brushed past him once more and more sweat beads came rolling down the cords of his neck. He should have left the fur coat at Bag End, the collar of the blasted thing was nearly suffocating him. Not to mention Orcrist’s weight, beating a steady rhythm against his back with every step he took and pushing more sun-warmed fabric along his skin.

It was no wonder, really, that Hobbits only wore light, sometimes short-sleeved shirts with pants that seldom reached past their knees. Summer in the Shire reminded Thorin of his early days working in a forge, with the almost unbearable heat weighing down on his shoulders and sucking air from his very lungs. As a dwarf, he was supposed to handle this oppressive climate better than most, yet he was the one sweating every drop of water contained in his body while all around him hobbits were chatting and walking without a care in the world. If the blazing heat was a burden to them, well, they concealed it with disgusting ease.

There was only so long Thorin could wander through a bustling crowd without feeling a bit dizzy. He suddenly regretted his decision to decline Bilbo’s offer to buy him a slice of apple pie when they first arrived to the marketplace. It would have been childish, wolfing down the treat much like Fíli and Kíli had, but at least it would have given his empty stomach and weary mind some material to work on. The unpleasantness of hunger, he was well used to, but coupled to the searing heat of summer and the hubbub caused by a loud-mouthed gathering of hobbits, and the King felt about ready to pass out.

It did help some that he towered above the shorter inhabitants of Hobbiton, though not by much, but Thorin had never felt really at ease in the middle of a crowd. Too many occasions for people to bump into each other or knock various body parts and, ouch, was it a fauntling that had come barrelling into his legs? The lad had taken off so quickly Thorin was left with no time to ask after his well-being. His eyes searched what little part of the ground he could see for the small creature, to no avail. It was like digging for a sliver of copper in a mountain of gold.

Before Thorin could let it go and resume walking, another ball of brown curly hair crashed into his knees, almost causing him to stagger back in surprise. This time, however, the fauntling toppled over and fell on his bum before the dwarf. Big blue eyes looked up, the flash of guilt soon to be erased by wonder and surprise when they settled on Thorin’s high stature. The child’s mouth fell open but no words came rolling out.

“Are you hurt?” the dwarf inquired, trying his best to sound gentle as he studied the impossibly tiny body sitting in front of him. Hobbits, he knew, were more frail-boned than Dwarves, yet no grievous injuries were to be found.

The lad’s lips moved, but before a single sound could be uttered a small yet piercing voice rang out. “Merry! Wait f’me! You run too fast!”

The call broke right through the young hobbit’s daze and he sprang to his feet, dashing away through the crowd before Thorin could prevent it. What a strange behavior those children exhibited… Was it normal for hobbits, to be mute and ready to bolt at moment’s notice until they were of age?

“Bilbo, if I may ask, is it common for fauntlings of your kind to- Bilbo?” When his eyes did not automatically find his intended, Thorin spun around. “Bilbo?” Ah, at least, the golden curls he had been looking for… or not. The resemblance was striking but no, too many wrinkles. Maybe spotting Fíli and Kíli would be easier, they _were_ taller than everybody here after all. But in the midst of tents and stalls he was as clueless as a dwarfling holding an axe for the first time.

Oh dear Mahal, no. He had done it. He had lost Bilbo and his nephews.

A minute of distraction had been enough to leave him stranded in a sea of unfamiliar faces. He should not have strayed, should have kept his attention on Bilbo at all times. What if his burglar’s life had been in danger and he needed protection? As unlikely as it seemed in the middle of Hobbiton in broad daylight, the prospect terrified Thorin and prompted him to search even harder.

Clutching the parcel of fish in his hands – both of which were quite moist, though whether it was due to his trepidation at being parted from his intended or the food he held, he had no time to care – Thorin made his way to the side-lines where hobbits were fewer and he was given more room to breathe. He stepped atop a flat rock there and once more gazed at the crowd, hoping for unruly dark hair or a heavy golden mane.

Nothing.

Had they ducked into one of those blue tents over there? Were they already on the other side of the marketplace, searching for him in a similar fashion?

His efforts were fruitless, they were not nearby and could be anywhere. He would just have to wait for them near the smial with the red door they had passed upon their arrival, they were bound to cross it again to go back to Bagshot Row.

And quite immediately, Thorin found himself facing another problem. At least half of the hobbit holes littering the borders of the market happened to be equipped with a round, bright, horribly annoying red door. The painted planks were almost looking back at the dwarf, mocking him, taunting him with non-existent eyes.

He should have known better. For all his nephews’ stories about his getting lost every time he stepped outside were a tad exaggerated, Thorin knew his sense of direction suffered from great flaws that he had never been able to overcome. As such, he always took care to fill his mind with landmarks whenever he had to visit a new place, but hunger and weariness had given way to recklessness that morning and he was now paying the price.

He was condemned to wait until the stalls closed or until death by shame claimed him, whichever came first. Unless the stench from the fish in his hands did him in…

“Oh my, do you need help, mister?”

Thorin whirled around and almost slipped from his perch, nearly dropping his parcel in the process. One of his courting braids slapped him cleanly across the face, getting caught in his beard and pulling a disgruntled huff from the dwarf.

Crystal clear laughter rang out from somewhere to his left, prompting Thorin to turn his head. First he only saw the bright smile that seemed to illuminate this side of the marketplace, but he soon realized that it was attached to a whole body. The round, stout body of a middle-aged lady hobbit who still had more days ahead of her than past. Her blond hair was cascading down her back, some of it held in a bun at the back of her head whence the golden strands that littered her shoulders came. The basket hanging from her elbow was a wonderful match to her dress, all vivid shades of green and brown.

Why hadn’t Thorin thought of fetching a basket? It would have certainly kept fish goo off his hands…

“I…” The dwarf cleared his throat, for his voice seemed to have gone along with Bilbo and his nephews. “I have misplaced the people I was walking with. I cannot seem to locate them, there is too much… well, that’s to say…”

“Obviously you aren’t from around here,” the hobbit chuckled. “You don’t look like you know your way around a marketplace.”

“Indeed, I don’t,” Thorin sighed as he hopped down from his perch to face her properly. “It doesn’t matter. I will just wait for them near Bagshot Row, if I happen to find it.”

“How lucky. I happen to live up Bagshot Row, I was actually going home when I saw you lookin’ as worried as a mother duck searching for her chicks.” She adjusted her grip on her basket and shot him a gentle smile. “Would you mind escorting me back home?”

The lass had the delicacy to put it as though he would be the one helping her, and not the other way around. She obviously was used to dealing with stubborn males. Thorin had to smirk. “It would be my pleasure, m’lady.”

“Oh, just Bell will do. Bell Gamgee.”

The name sparked something in Thorin’s memories but he failed to remember just where he had heard it. “I am Thorin, son of Thráin, at your service,” he said with a respectful bow.

The gesture pulled a pleased giggle out of Bell, and they were off.

It never ceased to amaze Thorin how a plump hobbit body such as Bell’s could saunter about with so much dexterity and apparent lightness. She easily moved through and away from the bustling crowd, a floored dwarf at her heels, until the flow of hobbits reduced to a tolerable level and they were finally able to walk side by side.

“Dwarves are an awfully uncommon sight in Hobbiton,” Bell said, greeting an elderly hobbit who was enjoying a bit of sun on her front porch with a wave of her free hand. “Sometimes Men stop by for a slice of pie or fish, but I think I’ve only seen Dwarves in this market once or twice. Are you from the Blue Mountains?”

“I have lived there for well over a century, but this was not where I was born nor where I shall live the rest of my days,” Thorin supplied, mentally cringing when he spotted the wet dots adorning his parcel. It would not do to have the wrapping soaked through before he reached Bag End. “My home lies in Erebor, west of the Misty Mountains. I don’t suppose you have heard about-”

“Oh dear me, what a trout face I am!” Bell suddenly exclaimed. “You are one of Bilbo Baggins’ dwarves?”

Well… technically, that was one way of putting it. “Indeed,” Thorin nodded.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this! My Hamfast has been yammerin’ about the lot of you all evening, he just wouldn’t stop! Kept the little ones up well past bedtime with his gibberin’.”

Now, that was a name that was familiar to Thorin’s ears. “You are Hamfast Gamgee’s wife?”

“Why, yes, that would be me,” she laughed.

“But then…” Unconsciously, Thorin’s eyes travelled down to Bell’s stomach. What he had swiftly labelled as hobbit pudginess now seemed rounder, firmer, and Hamfast’s words about his wife’s pregnancy came back to hit him in the face.

What an uncouth cad he had been!

“What are you doing?” Bell gasped when Thorin snatched her basket up and balanced it with the parcel of fish in his arms.

“You are with child,” he said as though it explained everything. “I will not allow you to carry unnecessary weight if I can help it.”

Upon hearing those words, Bell’s eyes grew a bit wider and she giggled once more. “By the Green Lady, what a chivalrous knight I have bumped into this fine morning. Well in that case, let’s head to Bagshot Row, shall we?”

Any protest she might have had were forgotten and she gladly let Thorin be her beast of burden. She even put on a pleased air and puffed out her bosom whenever they walked past other hobbits, filled to the brim with glee. They were met with astonished stares and, quite surprisingly, a few envious looks as well.

Soon, the sounds of the busy marketplace faded entirely and they were left to wander the paths of Hobbiton almost on their own.

Bell Gamgee was an amiable hobbit, as Thorin came to establish by the time they stopped by her flower-covered gate. A bit loud-mouthed and overbearing at times, perhaps, but a pleasant lady nonetheless. Her mannerisms reminded Thorin of Dís, and no sooner had that comparison been made that the dwarf’s heart longed to hold his younger sister in his arms.

 _Soon,_ he told himself, nodding absently as Bell explained the differences between pumpkins and gourds. _Soon she will be safe. I will never let anything tear us apart again_.

“Well, here we are,” Bell chimed, opening the gate with practised ease. “I trust you have time for some late elevenses?”

Thorin was about to reply that it would be better if he headed back to Bag End when the Gamgees’ yellow door opened and a chorus of squeals erupted from inside the smial, accompanied by the pattering of several pairs of little hobbit feet. Two, in fact; the young lasses could almost be mistaken as twins, but Thorin did not know if such a thing was possible for hobbits. Both clad in blue dresses with their blond hair done up in a messy bun, the children rushed down the few steps that led to the gate.

“Mommy!” one of them shouted happily. “You’re back!”

“Did you get carrot cake from the market?” the other girl asked hurriedly.

Upon reaching the gate, however, the fauntlings’ enthusiasm died down some when they saw Thorin. They instantly fell quiet and racked big, wondrous eyes up and down his dwarven figure. One of them, the youngest maybe, stepped aside until she was partially hidden behind her mother’s skirts but never unglued her gaze from Thorin.

“Daisy, May, what have I told you about staring at people?” Bell admonished with a frown.

The girls shuffled their overgrown feet nervously before a response came: “That it’s rude, and to never do it.”

“Exactly. Now, what do we tell people we meet for the first time?”

“Hullo,” the girl peering from around Bell’s dress mumbled. “My name is May.”

“And I’m Daisy,” the second child said. “Pleased to meet you.”

Thorin offered them what he hoped was a gentle smile. “I am Thorin, at your service, my ladies,” he introduced himself with a customary bow. He was pleased when the children’s anxiety eased some and the glint in their eyes became curious rather than suspicious.

For dwarflings were very few, they were treasured and shielded by most adult dwarves. Even those who never had children to call their own felt the urge to protect and care after young ones. The last time Thorin had felt those tugs at his heart had been when Fíli and Kíli were still beardless cubs. Apparently the fierce need to keep children away from harm extended to other races, as the King had begun to understand when he had met Estel.

“Mister Thorin here has been so kind as to carry your poor Mom’s basket all the way from the market,” Bell said, wiping invisible sweat from her forehead with a mock-sigh. “Could you girls fetch a bit of cherry pie and apple juice? I think there’s some left in the kitchen.”

“That is very kind of you, Mrs Gamgee, however as I meant to say earlier, I must really-”

“Mister Bilbo!”

The scream of delight tore through Daisy and May as the girls bolted from their position at the gate and all but ran around Thorin. Puzzled, the dwarf turned around, still carefully balancing groceries, and let out a sigh of relief.

Some feet down the path, Bilbo was walking with Fíli and Kíli. They appeared to be talking quite animatedly, but when the shireling spotted the two balls of energy coming his way, he gently deposited his twin bags of groceries on the ground and lowered himself in a crouch.

Just in time for two overexcited faunts to throw theirs chubby arms around his neck and squeal directly into his ear. “Mister Bilbo! Daddy said you were back!”

“And what do you know, he was right!” Bilbo smiled, patting both girls on the back. “You two have grown so much! You are getting quite pretty as well.”

“Daddy says we should thank Mommy for that,” Daisy grinned, her face buried into Bilbo’s waistcoat. “We missed your stories, Mister Bilbo. You didn’t even finish the last one with the elves and the fairy.”

“Don’t you worry your little heads about that, I have a fresh batch of new stories. If you come to Bag End this afternoon with your parents, I’ll tell you one, how does that sound?” Bilbo laughed when Daisy and May let out overjoyed squeals and hugged him even harder. “Alright, alright, girls you are choking me!”

“Oh Daisy, look!” May whispered heatedly to her sister when she looked over Bilbo’s shoulder. “More people like Mister Thorin… Hullo, I am May and this is my sister Daisy,” she said then, her mother’s earlier reminder to be polite still fresh in her mind.

Fíli and Kíli shared a surprised glance before bright smiles crossed their features, and they introduced themselves.

All of this, Thorin was too far away to hear, but he did take notice when May pointed at him and Bilbo’s gaze followed. Something akin to stupefaction flashed in his intended’s hazel eyes before warmth and relief followed. He must have thought Thorin to be lost in the maze of paths that slithered up and down the rolling hills of the Shire.

And if it hadn’t been for the lady currently waving at Bilbo, he would have been right.

“Dear me, Bell, you are positively glowing!” Bilbo said once he was within hearing range, the bags of groceries back in his arms and two little girls clutching at his pant legs as they walked.

“Everybody seems to be saying that, but I’ll be glad when it’s done and over with,” the lass chuckled, patting Bilbo on the back when the hobbit attempted a clumsy hug though his arms were otherwise occupied. “It’s good to see you’re alive and well. I was not overly fond of the new faces Bagshot Row was going to get.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Yes, well, Lobelia and Otho will just have to look elsewhere for a new smial, I am not leaving Bag End in their greedy hands. We took care of those cockroaches, swift and clean.”

“Indeed,” Bell said, eyes darting back to Thorin. “I believe Lobelia mentioned it, this morning at the market. Told everyone that wanted to hear that you allowed scraggly beasts with swords into Bag End.”

“Well, at least whenever those ‘scraggly beasts’ invade my home, I get something good out of it. Which cannot be said for everybody.”

The fond look bestowed upon the three dwarves by Bilbo was not lost on Bell, who laughed. “Oh, please, be sure to tell her that next time you see her! Now, you have to excuse me, but I believe I am invited for tea and have a few pies to bake. Pear still your favorite?”

“More so than ever.”

“Perfect, then. See you this afternoon.” With a wink, Bell ushered her girls inside and left the four males to head home.

The first few steps were spent in embarrassed silence on Thorin’s part, but Bilbo was quick to break it. “So, how come you decided to ditch us in the middle of the marketplace without so much as a ‘by your leave’, hm?”

Thorin frowned and was about to growl back that he never intended to ditch anyone, but Fíli beat him to it. “I can understand what motivated Uncle. I do not mean to offend, Bilbo, but that hobbit lass _is_ prettier than you are. Beautiful, even.”

“I guess that’s why Hamfast married her instead of me,” Bilbo shrugged. “That, and her amazing beef stew, I can’t measure up to that. Oh, come on, you great lump,” he smirked, bumping elbows with Thorin when the dwarf’s features took on a sour look. “Take a joke. Especially considering you had me worried and convinced I was going to have to take a pony and come fetch you in East Farthing. Now, let’s hurry a tad, shall we? I meant to cook that fish for lunch, and I can’t exactly do that if you keep squashing it like this.”

“… Aye.”

 

 

 


	15. A Hobbit Tea Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where cookies are abused and tongues should be kept in check.

 

“Then there was a grunt, and a roar, and we turned around to see just what had captured our ponies.” Bilbo paused a moment for drama. “It was a troll!”

There was a collective gasp from the pack of huddled children – plus Hamfast – as eyes that had already started widening grew the size of Belladonna’s prized saucers. Amongst the plethora of astonished expressions, ranging from terrified to flabbergasted, a suspicious frown stood out on Hamson’s features as the eldest son of Bell Goodchild and Hamfast Gamgee carefully studied Bilbo.

“Trolls are make believe,” he asserted with all the certainty of youth. “They are not real. Parents invented them to scare their kids into eating their greens and coming home before nightfall.”

“I wish my poor Myrtle was here so you could tell her that,” Bilbo sighed, running his fingers through blades of grass. “Sadly, my boy, the three trolls who took our ponies were very real.”

“Three?” Daisy squeaked, holding onto her father’s arm as though it were a plush toy. “You never said they were three!”

“I didn’t? Well, my mistake then, for there were three monstrous trolls in the clearing. If I recall correctly, their names were Tom, William and… Bert, I think. They were just sitting there, around a giant campfire, stirring an enormous cooking pot and discussing how they were going to season our faithful mounts. We felt quite powerless to stop them, to be honest.”

“How did ya save the ponies, Mister Bilbo?” Samwise asked from the safety of Hamfast’s lap, blue eyes full of wonder peering out from under his mass of golden hair.

“That I’ll tell you, but first, I believe we are out of cookies. I’ll go and fetch some from the kitchen.”

“Let me,” Thorin said as he got up from the flat rock he had elected as a seat. “Finish your story, I will retrieve what is missing.”

“Oh?” Bilbo blinked but eventually sat back down. “Thank you, Thorin.”

With a noncommittal grunt, the dwarven King made his way to Bag End’s green door. Before he crossed the threshold, however, he took a moment to embrace the company having tea in the garden with a sweeping glance.

Hobbits were extremely punctual creatures. No sooner had teatime come around that the bustling activity that came with fauntlings appeared at the gate. Hamfast’s family had arrived first, and Thorin had wholly agreed to Bilbo’s suggestion to have tea in the front garden. Bag End was still being reorganized and currently not in any condition to receive five children and both of their parents.

Hamson and Halfred, the eldest, were chapping up to be sturdy lads. Identical in hair and eye color, Hamson’s slightly taller stature gave away that he was a few years ahead of his sibling. Daisy, who was sitting on her father’s left side, kept glancing at her older brothers as though she was unsure whether or not they were telling the truth and trolls were not real. Her sister May, on the other hand, looked to be entirely convinced; she had scooted over at one point of the tale to sit between Fíli and Kíli. The dwarven brothers seemed very surprised by the little girl’s behavior, but they welcomed it just like they had accepted Estel’s quick friendship. Samwise, the youngest, was still a bit too impressed by the company to talk to them or even work up the nerve to stare at them.

Although younger than Sam, Frodo Baggins did not seem particularly scared of the dwarves lying about in the grass of his relative’s estate. As a matter of fact the little one was quite openly eyeing up Dwalin who was busy wolfing down yet another slice of Bell’s marvellous blueberry pie. Drogo and Primula’s only son had the same spark of curiosity that Thorin had witnessed in the eyes of dwarflings brought to the forges for the first time.

With a chuckle, Thorin turned around and finally ventured inside to scout for cookies and set some more water to boil – he had seen Bilbo pour the last cup minutes before. Since most of the furniture still needed to find its rightful place, the halls of Bag End were a bit obstructed by objects of all sizes and shapes; in this regard, it was lucky that Thorin did not have to travel far to reach the kitchen.

The kettle easily found its way atop a dying fire that Thorin poked a bit before he walked to the replenished pantry. After a small detour to snatch a bit of cheese – he had not entirely volunteered out of the goodness of his heart alone, to be honest – Thorin reached for one of the higher shelves where the cookie jar had been stored when Dwalin wasn’t looking. Had the bald warrior spotted it when they had come back from the market, they would have been only crumbs left for tea.

Glass jar in hand, Thorin returned to the kettle. Of course the water had yet to boil, and the dwarven King readied himself to wait. Maybe another slice of cheese to munch on would help time pass quicker…

Shuffling of small feet against the tiled floor had Thorin’s ears perking up and turning around, his battle-hardened hand reaching for Orcrist on impulse. When his fingers only grabbed thin air, he remembered that he had left it on the lawn next to his intended.

It mattered little, though. Thorin doubted the fauntling standing under the wooden arch separating parlor from kitchen would do him much harm.

Frodo was impossibly small. Even standing on his tiptoes, he hardly reached up to Thorin’s hip, but that consideration did not seem to deter him. The boy did not look the slightest bit nervous, and though he _was_ shuffling his feet a little, his blue eyes were set on Thorin’s.

“I’m sorry,” the lad said suddenly.

Well. This was unexpected.

“What are you sorry for, little one?” Thorin asked gently.

“This morning, at the market. I hit you and didn’t say sorry.” Frodo’s eyes lowered guiltily to the floor in front of his chubby feet.

“It was you, then.” Thorin tried his best to keep his tone light, for the lad’s expression was too grave and solemn for such a slight – not to mention unintentional – offense. It was the dwarf’s belief that such youthful features were not to be darkened so. “I remember you bumped into my legs quite hard. I hope you did not hurt yourself.”

Frodo’s gaze flicked up to meet Thorin’s. “No, Mister Dwarf, sir. I’m okay.”

“Well, that’s a relief. And my name is Thorin, little one.” The King watched on with amusement as Frodo mouthed the new name tentatively, probably committing it to memory. “If I may ask, why were you running at such an alarming speed?”

“My friends Merry and Pippin were running after me, they wanted to catch me,” Frodo explained, some of the guilt easing away from his eyes. “Merry had that big black spider in a jar and they wanted to show me. But I hate spiders.”

Memories of fangs piercing through his hide as a myriad of soulless eyes stared at him sent a shudder down Thorin’s spine. The hairy monsters from Mirkwood had left an indelible imprint on his mind. “Have you told them so?”

“I did! But they didn’t listen. They’re really really mean sometimes.”

“How is it you call them ‘friends’ then?” The thought of fauntlings ganging up to pick on another lad tugged at Thorin’s heart – although it had been common practise for Frerin to team up with Dís and make Thorin’s life miserable, on some occasions.

“I… I don’t know,” Frodo shrugged, a bit clueless. “I guess I like them. They’re not mean all the time…”

“I understand. Well, young Master Baggins, know that your apologies are accepted. However from now on I expect you to watch where you are going with more care.”

“Yes, Mister Dw- Thorin!”

The dwarven King nodded and turned back to his keetle. The fire was too low for water to boil properly so Thorin stoked it a bit. He would just have to deliver the cookies and retrieve the keetle later.

When he grabbed the cookie jar and turned around, however, he was surprised to see Frodo still standing in the same spot. Even more surprising, the lad was still nervously shifting his weight from one leg to the other even though Thorin had accepted his apologies. Certainly the boy did not still feel ashamed?

“Is there something else you need?” the dwarf asked.

“I… I don’t know where the bathroom is,” Frodo admitted softly.

Suddenly the faunt’s fidgety behavior made perfect sense. Thorin briefly wondered what would be Bilbo’s reaction to a little puddle of funny smells in the middle of the kitchen. Though the hobbit’s respectability was already under major strain from his year-long trip, it would be an interesting blow to deliver.

Thorin was brought out of his musings by a reminder that yes, there was a little hobbit whose bladder was about to give out in the same room as he.

“Well, you just have to…” A tickle at the back of his mind reminded Thorin that, unfortunately, he himself had no idea where the bathroom was. One look at the kettle confirmed that the water wasn’t going to boil anytime soon, and anyway, how big could a hobbit smial be? “We will just take a look around, shall we? Come.”

Thorin set the cookie jar on the kitchen table and walked over to Frodo.

Now, the King Under the Mountain was no dwarf to be easily surprised or thrown off balance. A faint heart would have never allowed him to lead his people across Middle Earth to the safety of the Blue Mountains, nor would it have agreed to a mad quest to slay a fire-breathing drake. Some, those who didn’t know Thorin half as well as half the Company did, would even say that Thráin’s son’s heart had been carved out of stone. Cold and hard as the mountain Thorin was born under.

Yet that heart gave a very lively jump when small fingers reached up to grasp Thorin’s hand.

Frodo’s digits could not wrap themselves properly around the broad dwarven hand, so they settled for holding two of Thorin’s fingers. When the tall bearded stranger didn’t lead him away immediately, Frodo looked up, puzzlement clear across his features.

Unwilling to push the child away, no matter how stunned he was, Thorin lightly squeezed the smaller hand and together, they set off in search of the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 

“… and then, poof! It turned them all to stone!”

Bilbo chuckled when the children – this time including Hamson who had got caught up in the story as well – gasped loudly. His mirth only grew stronger when Fíli and Kíli gave a roar of delight and clapped.

“You tell this story quite well, Bilbo,” Fíli praised.

“Perfectly, even! It felt like I was all tied up in a sack once more!” Kíli nodded with a wild grin. “I could almost smell it.”

“That’s just because you are in dire need of a bath, brother.”

Kíli gave a mock growl and pounced on his elder, sending the both of them tumbling on the lawn.

“Lads, lads, I would appreciate it if you kept from starting a brawl in my front garden, thank you,” Bilbo warned gently, giving the empty plate next to him a longing look. Those boys would cause less trouble had they some food to stuff in their mouths. Thorin had been gone for an awfully long time, surely he could not have gotten lost within Bag End, of all places? The kitchen was fairly easy to locate, or at least that’s what Bilbo had always thought…

_The rascal’d better not be plundering the pantry!_

“Now, I’ll be helping Thorin with those cookies which are, apparently, too hard to fetch. Unless he’s baking them himself, in which case I fear for my kitchen,” he added under his breath as he stood up, brushing stray twigs from his pants. “Drogo, my friend, please make sure these dwarves behave while I am away retrieving their leader. They tend to be quite the raucous bunch when nobody supervises them.”

Under said dwarves’ offended seething, Drogo turned two shades paler and gave Bilbo an alarmed look that clearly stated ‘And, pray tell, what exactly am I to do if those burly beasts misbehave?’. The honey-haired hobbit could not blame him, especially considering that strange glint in Dwalin’s eyes.

Maybe his cousin would understand how he had felt, two years prior, when the warrior had first knocked upon his door.

Bilbo sauntered over to Bag End’s great round door. With the help of fifty years of practice, he ducked left and through the parlor to enter the kitchen. “Thorin, I sincerely hope you are not trying to improve your cooking skills at the expense of my kitchen’s wellbeing,” the hobbit warned cheerfully.

But ladles and frying pans alike turned out to be quite safe, for the dwarf was not to be found anywhere close to cooking-related items. In fact, Thorin was not even in the kitchen or surrounding area. But the cookie jar on the table had not jumped from its shelf on its own, nor had Bilbo’s quite peaceful kettle been overcome with the fierce desire to have its bottom roasted by itself, so the King _had_ come to the kitchen at some point… yes, but then?

“Thorin?” One glance into the dining room found it devoid of dwarf. Bilbo frowned and stepped into the atrium. Or rather, what little part of the atrium’s floor he could step on, what with chairs and stools and a myriad of other items the hobbit had not had the pleasure of identifying yet.

For all Dwalin and the lads had been efficient and hard-working that morning, they had become completely useless after Bilbo’s pantry had been generously re-supplied. Apparently moving furniture about was too great a hardship when fresh, tasty food lingered a stone’s throw away, with the only flaw that it had yet to be introduced to their stomachs. Dwarves.

Bilbo could not really fault them, though. And he was only too happy to see a satisfied grin on Fíli’s face or hear Kíli guffaw as Thorin tried cherries for the first time and choked on the cores. Not to mention Dwalin’s curses when said cores were promptly spat in his lap, or Bofur and Glóin’s roars of laughter as they leaned on either side of Bombur for support. The old Bilbo would have frowned at the wild noises and fussed over the mess made of Dwalin’s clothing – cherry stains were nearly impossible to remove, after all. But now Bilbo found it incredibly easier and far more pleasant to simply laugh along and make a snide comment about how the best end for those cores to exit a body was indeed through the mouth.

“Thorin? Dearest, you are too old to play hide-and-seek,” Bilbo called again, ducking under a bunch of curtain-rods. Those would be a pain to put in place again.

Somewhere in the depths of the congested halls, there was a soft sound that made Bilbo’s ears twitch. It was echoing, bouncing off walls and still empty rooms, making it hard to pinpoint its source, but it didn’t relent and grew stronger by the second. At first it sounded like a carpet being dragged along the floor, but as time passed and Bilbo ventured further in the mess of books and chairs, it slowly turned into a high-pitched, alarming hiss…

“The kettle!” Bilbo gasped, only to realize that the words hadn’t escaped his mouth. Rather, a deep voice had uttered them from somewhere on the other side of Bag End.

Bilbo only had time to turn around before Thorin came running around the corner of the west hall. Their eyes met for the shortest second known to the Shire, widened, and Bilbo opened his mouth to shout a warning.

But it was much too late for words, and the old oaken desk too close to be avoided.

Thorin hit the wooden structure full force, the surface digging into his midsection and audibly drawing all air from his lungs. The desk creaked and howled from the massive dwarven weight landing on it, to the point Bilbo didn’t know if he should worry more about his dwarf’s bones or his desk’s legs. Quickly, though, Thorin tumbled to the ground with a pained grunt, bringing down books and quills in his wake. One desperate attempt to halt his fall made him reach out and grab a handful of linens that he only succeeded in dragging down as well, effectively covering his slumped form.

“Good gracious me!” Bilbo squeaked once cups stopped rolling about and dust settled. “Thorin? Are you hurt?” When no answer came from the shapeless lump on the floor, a pang of dread shot through Bilbo’s heart. He had seen that dwarf take bigger falls than that, certainly he was well. A bit winged, of course, but mostly unharmed… The hobbit itched to get closer but both the mess separating him from his beloved and the constant hissing of the kettle had him dancing in one spot with no real purpose. “Thorin?”

“Hmmm fine,” came the groan from under the sheets. “Get… the kettle…”

“The-the kettle? Are you… I mean, you’re sure… Alright alright! Don’t move!”

Bilbo sprinted back to the kitchen and it was only one last, blessed second of common sense that kept him from grabbing the burning kettle with his bare hands. Thanks to a rag that happened to be conveniently placed near the fire, the boiling water was deposited on the kitchen table in less time than it took to say ‘tomato’. Instantly, the rag sailed through the air; where it landed, Bilbo had no clue, since he was already out of the room, his overgrown feet hardly touching the floor as he flew back to Thorin.

Only to find that he had been outraced.

Carefully, Frodo was untangling sheets and relieving Thorin’s body of the books that had fallen upon it. Some of the tomes were only slightly smaller than the young hobbit was, and not lighter by much, either. But the focused look on the faunt’s face told Bilbo that he would have willingly moved mountains to free the dwarf ‘trapped’ underneath the linens.

“Mister Thorin, are you okay?” Frodo asked, his little face red and a bit puffy as he set down a fifth book. He plucked quills and empty inkwells from the still form with enough care to make a hobbit mother weep.

“I am well, melekith,” Thorin grunted, his voice somewhat muffled by the layers of fabric.

“Is that what happens when you don’t watch where you are going?”

A pause, then loud chuckles escaped the dwarf’s throat. “This is _exactly_ what happens when you don’t watch your step, mizimith. You end up hurting yourself on poorly-placed furniture, as I did.”

“Poorly-placed?” Bilbo huffed. He crossed his arms and took to taping his right foot against the floor tiles in annoyance. “I don’t remember you lending a hand to tidy up the place, Thorin Oakenshield, may your beard never turn white.”

With some shuffling, Thorin’s head peeked out from under the sheets. The smirk adorning the King’s lips was too smug – and endearing – to be accepted. “Indeed, but need I remind you that I spent this morning on market duty with you, Bilbo Baggins, may Mahal bless your hairy soles?”

“Yes, but… you didn’t… alright, wipe that smart look right off your face, Your Highness! And get up, I’m certain you are crushing my precious maps and scrolls under all that bulk.”

“Your wish is my command, ghivashel,” Thorin rumbled. Dear Yavanna, when had the King become so playful? And the way he slowly slinked out from under the sheet, like a prowling cat… Sinful, all of it. Bilbo cursed his breath for catching and his mind for wandering to realms that were not to be travelled so early in dwarven courting.

Those were quite disturbing thoughts to be had with a child in the room.

“What on Arda were you two doing in here all by yourselves?” Bilbo asked once Thorin was done dusting himself off.

“Mister Thorin and I were searching for the little boys’ room!” Frodo exclaimed, apparently proud of himself for a reason unknown to Bilbo.

“Were you, now? Do you know, this comes as a surprise, with all this time spent on the road I was not aware that Mister Thorin knew such a room existed.” Bilbo had to smirk at the glowering coming off in waves from Thorin. It was not every day he could take advantage of the dwarf’s clumsiness. “Oh, please don’t growl, beloved, you’re going to scare the children.”

“I am going to scare you, you mean,” the King snorted, brushing one last feather from his shoulder. One quill had seemingly met its end under his great weight. A shame, that.

“I’ve seen dogs look more fearsome than you do.”

“Did you, now?”

“Why did you call him ‘beloved’, Uncle Bilbo?”

Both adults froze at the youthful, naïve question coming from a level much closer to the floor than they were. While Thorin seemed to relax rather quickly, Bilbo’s mind began to shake with the first tendrils of panic. He hadn’t felt that way since that time he had picked a golden cup from the floor, only to uncover a red-scaled snout and a hint of terrifying fangs. He had to wonder at the cause.

Promptly, before he could think or Thorin could speak up, Bilbo opened his mouth. “Well, you see Frodo, Mister Thorin here is a very, very loved friend of mine. That’s why I call him, well… ‘beloved’ from time to time.”

A lame excuse, a child’s babble at best, and Frodo didn’t seem to buy it.

“Daddy calls Mommy that, sometimes,” he pointed out, a suspicious frown digging little creases upon his pink features, soon to be joined by a slight grimace. “And then Mommy usually kisses Daddy. On the mouth.”

Bilbo pointedly chose to ignore Thorin’s amused smile. He felt far too sweaty and uncomfortable to find this situation entertaining. “Yes, but your mother had the great fortune of marrying her very best friend, so this explains… that.”

Not a complete lie, anyway. Drogo and Primula had been childhood sweethearts after all, and as far as Bilbo could remember he had always seen them together or at the very least, less than two feet apart. He was merely twisting things a bit to make a point.

When the lad seemed to mull over those last words, Bilbo saw his chance and took it. “Why don’t you go back outside and ask Mister Dwalin for a story? If you ask very nicely, he’ll tell you about that time he met a bear in the forest, you won’t be disappointed!” He tried to sound cheerful and slick and altogether not as nervous as he felt.

“Mister Dwalin?” Frodo asked quizzically.

“Big fellow with the axes and a bald head. He’s very friendly, so don’t feel intimidated or anything. Now off with you, chop-chop!”

With one last glance in Thorin’s direction, Frodo chose to humor his adult relative and padded over to the other end of the atrium, where he disappeared.

Now, Bilbo could only hope that the faunt would not notify his parents about the strange name his cousin had taken to calling Mister Thorin.

“Am I that unworthy of being seen as more than a friend?”

Bilbo turned around to see that Thorin had made it past most of the furniture scattered in the hall. Only a small overturned bookcase separated them now, but instead of pushing it out of the way as he had done with the rest, Thorin leaned forward on his elbows, resting his greater bulk on the wood. The look he was giving Bilbo was playful, yet there was no denying the underlying uncertainty in those blue orbs.

“Of course not,” Bilbo smiled. “I just want to avoid unnecessary babbling, is all.”

“What do you mean?”

Bilbo fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, I’m not particularly fond of the prospect of some people, say, my dear Sackville-Baggins cousins, knowing where you and I stand with each other. No need to add fuel to the Mad Baggins fire, thank you very much.”

The mere thought made what little hair the shireling had on his forearms stand on end. Were Lobelia to learn who had ensnared Bilbo’s heart, they would be the talk of Hobbiton within the hour. No. He would take care of business, ensure that Bag End found a suitable family to bring life to its halls and they would be off. Much more acceptable.

“What could be ‘mad’ about us courting one another?” Thorin asked, his voice holding more than pure curiosity. Bilbo knew he had to tread carefully.

“What is not, you mean. According to Shire standards, of course,” he added hurriedly when the hint of a frown began to crease Thorin’s brow. “Dearest, around here taking an hour-long walk whereas you only meant to be gone for half an hour is already considered adventurous and a show of recklessness. Can you imagine? My being gone for over a year is already a cause for gossip, how am I to announce that I am involved with someone from the other side of the world, a dwarf to top it off? A scandal, that’s what it would be.”

Had Bilbo been facing Thorin, he would have noticed the way the broad shoulders slumped and the strong jaw slacked. Instead, the hobbit chose to adjust a heap of scrolls that had been deposited on his mother’s old closet. To say that this particular matter bothered would be a monumental understatement.

“I see,” came the mumbled response.

“They would not deem it respectable, you know,” Bilbo pursued, somewhat encouraged by Thorin’s words yet not quite willing to meet his gaze. “Dear Yavanna, it would be a fuss fit to kill my poor father a second time. No, it’s best if we keep this between us, if you don’t mind.”

“As you wish,” the dwarf replied curtly. “Forgive me for I did not realize the shame that would be brought upon your name.”

Bilbo could no longer pretend to be deaf. Slowly, reluctantly, the hobbit turned around, dreading the resentment and anger that would be carved into Thorin’s features, the dwarf’s legendary foul temper brought forth from the dead by an unfortunate choice of words.

He almost had to take a step back, however, at the sight of his intended.

Thorin looked… _hurt_. As though Bilbo had driven a knife through his ribs and left it there. He had risen from his leaning position on the bookcase and was in the process of crossing his arms. His big nose and whiskery lips twitched spasmodically, struggling to maintain a collected façade, but his blue eyes said it all. The King was upset.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said softly, his heart rate gradually speeding up until the treacherous organ was playing drums against his ribcage. “Beloved. This is not what I meant.”

“Or is it? What would urge you to hide the true nature of our relationship, if not shame? We have fought together, bled together, watched as a lost kingdom was brought to life anew together,” Thorin growled. “What is this place where such feats mean nothing and are profoundly overridden by a foolish need to be ‘respectable’ and never stray from the established norm?”

“The place I was born and raised in, and I would thank you not to breathe fire at it,” Bilbo replied calmly, but fire began to burn low in his belly. How incredibly rude of dwarves to build their entire race on secrets only to complain loudly when faced with a tiny request for discretion. “They would not understand. Were we to stay here for a long while, I would try to explain, but we are only waiting a few days for your sister to show up. I could do without the general uproar for the time we remain here.”

Bilbo believed his line of thought to be sensible enough, and truly, it was. But Thorin’s pride was wounded and the dwarf did not try to hide it.

“Agreed,” Thorin said lowly. “Do you want me to take out my braids and beads, as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bilbo huffed back. That insufferable dwarf was determined to act like a child, and it was grating on his nerves. “Braids mean nothing to Hobbits, much less dwarven braids and beads. Those can stay.”

“Are you quite sure? I would not risk anyone drawing conclusions because of our carelessness.”

“Has anyone told you that you can be extremely stupid and stubborn?” the shireling hissed, his vow to remain patient taking flight from his mind, never to return that day. “I’m not ordering you to push me away, I only wish for our private life to remain private, is that too heavy a burden?”

“You are asking me to lie,” Thorin pointed out, a storm brewing on his features, begging to be unleashed.

“I’m asking you to- oh, confound it! I don’t know why I bother.” Bilbo ran a hand through his messy curls as he willed himself to calm down. “I should have kept quiet and things still would have gone smoothly. With you hardly touching me in public, we could have fooled anyone in Hobbiton into thinking we are just friends, anyway.”

“I do not ‘hardly’ touch you.”

“No? Then what do you call it when I practically have to beg for every single touch?” Bilbo did not know exactly when this conversation had taken a turn for the worse and escalated into high spheres of personal thinking. It just had. “When I have to initiate every kiss? Or bear with your nervous glances around when I embrace you? You have absolutely no right to deny me discretion when you look upon displays of affection with such disdain!”

With those last words, the storm cleared away from Thorin’s face, replaced by an unreadable expression that instantly quelled the fire in Bilbo’s gut. With anger flown out the window, guilt waltzed in unannounced, fuelled by Thorin’s sudden stillness and his blank features.

If only the ring in Bilbo’s pocket could turn back time instead of simply turning people invisible.

“That is,” he muttered, eyes downcast and unable to meet his suitor’s. “I mean… not that you’re cold or I’m unhappy or anything… quite the contrary, I… I-I, Thorin…”

“I will do as you wish,” was the dwarf’s answer. It was short, but sounded genuinely hurt.

The urge to run and hold Thorin woke in Bilbo’s chest. He would have gladly done so, too, were he not stunned into stillness by that emotion he had never seen in the King’s eyes.

Bilbo could just stand and watch as Thorin turned around, his mouth set and his shoulders once more squared, until only his broad back and black hair was visible to the hobbit. Bilbo did shake himself out of this trance-like state when his suitor began to walk away, and words that had been trapped in his throat found their way up.

“Thorin,” he called hoarsely, clutching the bookcase the dwarf had been leaning on playfully only minutes prior. It seemed hours had elapsed since that moment. “Where are you going? Everyone is in the garden…”

Bilbo’s heart sunk when there was not even the slightest hesitation in Thorin’s step. He was almost out of the atrium and in the west hall, it would not be long until he disappeared from Bilbo’s line of sight. Curse all that mess, too high to climb or too heavy to be pushed over! Then again, Bilbo had the feeling that his touch would be unwelcome, were he to run to Thorin’s side.

The prospect hurt him more than he would have guessed.

“Âzyungel,” Bilbo breathed. “Please.”

At last, Thorin halted his steps. He did not turn around but slightly angled his head, so that Bilbo was allowed a glimpse of his bearded jaw and the silver clasp encompassing his left ear.

He didn’t talk, not at first, and Bilbo kept quiet for fear that he might break whatever delicate spell had been cast upon his atrium. He feared the smallest sound, the tiniest movement would make Thorin snap and walk away so, much like one watched a wary doe drink from a river, Bilbo stayed impossibly still.

An eternity or two dragged by, then the dwarf spoke up.

“I will make myself useful and tidy this place up, as you suggested,” Thorin drawled.

With those last words and half a glance in Bilbo’s general direction, he was gone.

Numbness overtook the shireling’s mind as a hateful spike of frozen dread was driven through his heart. Mentally, Bilbo cursed his careless tongue and stupid babbling. While his relationship with Thorin did go back a long way, the most romantic aspects of their interactions were still fairly new and fragile. He should have known better than to threaten them so unkindly.

It was likely that Thorin would sulk and nurse his bruised pride for as long as they remained in the Shire.

A booming laugh from the garden reminded Bilbo that, yes, he had guests to care after.

His gaze lingered on the empty atrium, heavy with guilt, before he turned heels and brought the thrice-damned cookie jar and now lukewarm kettle outside.

“To this day I still wear that rascal’s furs on me shoulders, tis why I’ve never lost a battle,” Dwalin finished as Bilbo stepped foot outside.

The bunch of children had migrated until they were all sitting around the bald warrior, some of them at a respectable distance, some others leaning so close that they could as well have been sitting on the dwarf’s thick thighs. Daisy and Frodo looked particularly taken with the burly fellow, staring up at him with awe and something akin to worship. They drank in every word, their intense focus only broken by a stray giggle or a gasp. On the other hand, Hamfast and Drogo were looking a bit green around the gills, proof that Dwalin’s story had been at the very least mildly graphic.

In spite of his dampened mood, Bilbo chuckled at the scenery.

“Here lads, ladies,” he announced, “I’m bringing more water for tea and coo-”

“Cookies!” the young ones shouted with delight, joined by Dwalin’s approving grunt, as they all but ran over to where Bilbo was standing.

The hobbit gave a mock yelp and pretended to be frightened by the assault of tiny hands on his person. He forced a laugh out of his throat and surrendered, handing over the jar which was promptly taken over to Dwalin, greedy little fingers already finding their way inside as crumble-filled mouths asked for another story, please, please, Mister Dwalin.

While the broad dwarf asked for cookies as payment for another tale, Bilbo met Fíli’s worried gaze. A silent question as to his uncle’s whereabouts. Bilbo gave him a reassuring nod; he wasn’t about to lay out his spat with the King in plain sight, not even for his nephew.

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly, with the dwarves sharing stories and charming great bouts of laughter out of the children, leaving Bilbo free to chat with his fellow adult hobbits. Thorin did not reappear from the depths of Bag End, as foreseen. Chances were the King was off brooding in some corner and would not come out until Bilbo talked some sense into his thick skull.

They had to wait for the Sun to settle down snugly between rolling hills for one last unexpected visitor to turn up.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was not alarmed by the flutter of great black wings as the raven dove and found a perch on the wooden bench near Bag End’s round door. He was actually rather thrilled.

“Someone is going to be happy his brother is back,” he said cheerfully as fauntlings peered curiously at the overgrown bird.

Bilbo sauntered over to the raven, hoping he would have at least a few moments until Caräk appeared and pounced on him if only to feed the bird after such a long journey. Moreover, there would certainly be a message of some sort meant for Thorin, and that would be the perfect opening topic for the conversation he would have with the dwarf in the evening…

Only that he didn’t remember Troäc ever possessing faded white feathers on his head or a cracked beak.

“Roäc!” Bilbo gasped when he recognized the old raven. “We were expecting your son… Has anything happened to Erebor?”

“ _Peace, Master Baggins,_ ” the eldest messenger of the Lonely Mountain said, weariness and fatigue brewing under his voice. His great black wings were shivering, testimony to the bird’s old age and his long flight. “ _Erebor stands as it did the morning of your departure. Though the news I bear are not of the best kind, rest assured that the kingdom is perfectly fine._ ”

“Well, that is a relief… What bad news do you speak of?”

Roäc’s black eyes flicked over to the crowd of spying dwarrows, awed fauntlings and puzzled hobbits, all out of hearing range but still very interested. His beak clicked nervously. “ _This is a matter I would rather expose to the King_ ,” the raven croaked softly, shifting his weight from one clawed leg to the other.

“You will find the King is not in the best of moods right now, and I’d rather spare you the burden of being on the receiving end of one of his fits,” Bilbo replied, and his tone would suffer no disagreement. When the bird visibly bristled, the hobbit tried a different approach. “Roäc, if by my words or actions I can lessen the impact of your message, then please let me try. You have had a long journey, one that you should have let a younger raven undertake. Let me take care of things from now.”

Roäc struggled fiercely, but his resolve crumbled and his whole form seemed to sag under the weight of years. He even allowed Bilbo to sit on the side of the bench not occupied by his great black bulk and lay a friendly hand on his feathered back to rub between his wings.

“ _We have received word_ ,” the raven from the olden days drawled slowly, unconsciously leaning against Bilbo’s side to take some weight off his gnarled legs. “ _From Ered Luin. Lady Dís and the Longbeards… they are not coming._ ”

 

 

  


 


	16. Midnight Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ravens are awesome. I'd choose them over giant boars any day. No, Dain, I'm not sorry.

“Not coming?” Thorin repeated, his voice rough and incredulous. “Not _coming_?”

Perhaps, Bilbo thought as he sat with a trembling raven standing in his lap, life would be easier if Thorin wasn’t a loud-mouthed, foul-tempered dwarf.

Unfortunately, as was often the case, life was a heartless jerk.

“They are not coming _right away_ , Thorin,” Bilbo spoke softly, one hand resting on Roäc’s breast to steady the weary old raven. The King should know better than to shout at the faithful messenger who was merely fulfilling his duty to the line of Durin. “Why don’t you stop pacing? Come and sit with us so we can speak properly.”

Thorin scowled for a bit but chose to humor Bilbo. With bad grace, the dwarf sat in the unoccupied armchair across from the hobbit. The light from the fire made every line on his face stand out, adding years to his already respectable count.

Thanks to – or was it because of? – Thorin’s afternoon-long brooding, most of the furniture clogging Bag End’s halls had been put back in place. The armchairs and low table had found their way to the parlor, and even Bilbo’s comfortable bed had been dragged to the master bedroom, mattress and all. Only the study and bathroom had yet to be refurbished. Most items would need rearranging, but they were in the right rooms, and in some recess of his mind Bilbo marvelled at Thorin’s memory.

He had waited until Bagginses and Gamgees were well on their way home to bring Roäc inside and look for the sulking dwarf. A caress from each child down the raven’s proud breast and a promise to visit soon later, the hobbits were off. If any of them wondered why Thorin had not seen fit to grace them with his presence again, they did not show it.

In the parlor, Thorin had been building a fire in the hearth to ward off darkness as night slowly settled. The stern look on his features and his brisk movements as he fed wood to the fire had been enough to convince the other dwarves that it was not an evening to fool around and that, if they valued their limbs, they should give their King some space. As such, they were all off in Bilbo’s old back room – where they had laid out their bedrolls for the night – to play dice and nibble on the remains of Bell Gamgee’s cinnamon rolls.

Thorin had not taken well to Bilbo invading his personal bubble, especially so soon after their argument. But the raven perched on the shireling’s shoulder had tickled his interest.

“When has this information reached Erebor?” Thorin asked sourly after a moment of silence. Mechanically, his fingers were rubbing a scratch on the back of his hand that he had most certainly obtained at some point during his tidying frenzy.

Roäc’s talons dug lightly into Bilbo’s thighs, a testimony to the bird’s anxiety, but when the answer came it was undaunted. “ _About four days ago. I am sorry Your Highness, I meant to fly faster but these wings are not what they used to be and the winds often worked fiendishly against me_.”

“Your apologies are accepted but not needed, my friend,” Thorin replied, and his tone was much softer and his brow more relaxed than when this conversation had first started. At least the dwarf was showing some sensibility and did not put the weight of blame on Roäc’s worn-out bones. “A lesser raven than you would have backed away from such a tedious journey, though I wish you would let younger messengers take your place once in a while.”

“ _Younger messengers are neglectful and more often than not fail to grasp the true importance of the information they bear_ ,” Roäc said bitterly.

Ouch, that was one harsh comment coming from the eldest raven in Erebor, and Bilbo knew who it was directed at.

As instructed, Troäc had flown from Rivendell to the dwarven halls of the Blue Mountains. There, he had met Lady Dís and collected the unfortunate news that the dwarves of Ered Luin would not be able to take to the road in the near future due to a regrettable twist of events. But when faced with the task of finding his way to the Shire and Bag End, Troäc had failed.

There would be so much joking going around once it became known that Thorin’s raven had gotten lost, Bilbo could feel it.

A tad panicked, Troäc had hurried back to Erebor, his home the only place he could think of bringing his message to.

“Your son did his very best, I’m sure,” Bilbo soothed, fingers trailing down the white feathers that threatened to fall out and leave the old raven’s neck bare. “He is young, he has time to learn.”

“ _He has been chosen to accompany the King on a journey and he manages to stain this great honor by acting like a hatchling. For this he should be plucked bare_.”

“I’ve sent your son to a place he had never been to before, and we set out on the road before he came back. I should have given him better instructions about our destination so that he may find us easily,” Thorin stated evenly. “If anyone is to blame, then I am. Let us not speak of this anymore.”

“ _You are too kind, my King. My son does not deserve such clemency. Back when your grandfather King Thrór ruled Erebor, there would not_ -”

“I am not my grandfather, therefore I do not intend to rule as he did,” the dwarf interjected, one hand coming up to massage the bridge of his nose. “I would be most obliged if you remembered that.”

“ _Of course, Your Highness_.”

Bilbo took advantage of the short silence that followed Roäc’s words to observe Thorin. Clad in his simple midnight blue tunic and gray breeches, he still looked as regal as the day Dáin had deposited the granite crown on his head. He also acted every inch the King he was meant to be, showing care and mercy to his subjects even though fury was bubbling right under his skin. Even though he was in the midst of a personal conflict with his One, too.

At this thought, Bilbo’s heart ached dully. He made the mental promise to have words with Thorin as soon as Roäc retired for the night; they would not go to bed on such awful terms.

“How much was lost?” Thorin inquired quietly after a few minutes of staring off into the flames as if they held the answer to everything.

“ _Three fourths of their stock. Dried meat and wheat, mostly. It is not said whether or not the fire was the result of an accident or criminal intent, but it started a few hours before sunrise and quickly spread to the storage barns. By the time your sister Lady Dís and the guards managed to extinguish it, there was not much left._ ”

Thorin sighed and slumped further into the plump armchair. “They cannot depart,” he groaned.

“ _A few small fields have yet to be harvested, and cattle remain to be put down, but even then their food rations would be too meager_ ,” Roäc agreed. “ _The elders and the younger chicks would not even reach Bree_.”

Thorin mulled over those words, his eyes back to the fire and its dancing shadows. Bilbo could only guess that the dwarf was reliving his years in exile, the whole of his people trailing behind him and every new day bringing its share of death on the road. His features were steel, hard and unyielding, as he pondered.

Before the silence grew too uncomfortable, though, the King spoke. “You may now rest, my friend. I will seek your counsel in the morning but for now, you need sleep.”

“He’s right, you are about to collapse,” Bilbo nodded, pasting a great smile on his face. He offered his arm to the raven who gratefully hopped on it and let himself be carried as the hobbit stood up. “How about a bite to eat, then? Then I’ll find you somewhere warm to curl up in for the night. Let’s see what we can do.”

One glance back told Bilbo that Thorin would still be sitting there for a while. Good.

Bilbo chatted amiably as he carried Roäc over to the dining room. A shriek of delight welcomed them in the deserted room as Caräk hopped along the great table to greet his father.

“Yes, yes, we’re all very happy Roäc made it here in one piece,” Bilbo conceded as the old raven jumped down on the wooden surface and the two birds began cawing at one another. “I’ll fetch you two something, stay here.”

He sauntered over to the pantry and grabbed a long knife. Reaching into the small room used as a cold cellar, he sliced a generous chunk off the massive beef fillet they had bought that morning from the market. He eyed the red meat longingly and decided that he would make some stew for supper; dinnertime had already flown by but thanks to Bell’s and Primula’s baking skills, stomachs had yet to growl.

Snatching a small cutting board from a shelf, Bilbo hummed his way back to the dining room.

The ravens looked on with rapt attention as Bilbo cut the meat into bite-sized pieces and disposed them on the cutting board for them to eat. “There,” he said after he was done. “I left water in the kitchen, and if you are still hungry you can search the pantry for anything you’d like. Or call for me, whichever you prefer.”

“ _My thanks, Master Baggins_ ,” Roäc bowed.

“Now, none of that, you don’t have to bow to me, I’m not royalty or anything,” Bilbo smiled.

“ _One day, you will be._ ”

Bilbo could only stand, stunned, as the ravens tucked in and joyously swallowed the small chunks of red meat.

Royalty. He had been so preoccupied by and focused on dwarven extremely long courtships that he had never stopped to think about the eventual – and inevitable, now that he thought about it – outcome of his relationship with Thorin.

They would marry. Thorin would still be King but Bilbo would become his royal consort. The whole of Erebor… scratch that, the whole of the Eastern Reaches would know of this union. Scribes would include him in dwarven history books, Ori had already seen to that with his journal of the quest for Erebor. As Thorin’s One, Bilbo would forever become part of the kingdom, the other half of the King Under the Mountain’s heart.

And he had tried to tuck the same dwarf away from the eyes of his neighbors and relatives, hiding him for fear that fleeting, shallow-minded hobbits might judge and criticize them for a couple of days. All for the sake of stupid, thrice-damned respectability.

“I’ll leave you to your meal, then,” Bilbo told the great birds. “There is one task I have yet to see to before I go to bed.”

His heart at the same time heavy and the furthest thing from it, the hobbit turned heels and started back in the parlor’s direction.

He found Thorin sitting at the narrow table near the window, quill in hand and hastily scribbling away at a scroll. The light from two candles gave life to the creases marring the dwarf’s features as he wrote, outlining every dip and bump along the tough skin. As the King scrunched his face up in concentration, it gave volume to the short twin scars running across his nose and cheek, courtesy of Azog’s deadly mace. Bilbo’s breath caught in his chest and he was overcome with the need to run and kiss those marks; for his sake as well as Thorin’s, he held himself in check.

The hobbit still had to decide on the way he was going to handle this conversation. In the end he elected to be calm and collected; it wouldn’t do to babble like a tween and it certainly would not help mend things between them.

“What are you writing?” Bilbo asked politely as he casually took a seat on the bench across from Thorin.

He cringed when the dwarf only glanced at him, merely a bit surprised at being crept upon, before turning his attention back to the scroll. “A missive for Dáin,” he answered curtly.

“Oh.” Bilbo let a few seconds drag by, but when it became obvious that Thorin was not going to add anything, he cleared his throat. “And… what is your missive about?”

Thorin graced him with a scowl, openly showing his annoyance at Bilbo’s prying behavior. Another hobbit would have backed away at the plain display of hostility, but this Baggins knew his suitor too much to be frightened. This was Thorin’s wounded pride talking. “If you must know, though I highly doubt you do,” the dwarf growled, “I am sending instructions to have every raven available carry what gold they can to the Blue Mountains, in the hope that it might be sufficient to buy enough food from surrounding villages for the caravan to take to the road before next month’s end.”

“That’s… rather smart, actually,” Bilbo commented, thinking that it would be best to begin with small compliments so as to not make his efforts to soothe Thorin’s hurt too obvious. “Would save them a lot of time and energy.”

He expected a smile or at least an approving nod, but his Grumpiness Under the Lonely Rock merely gave a noncommittal grunt and kept scribbling, his eyes never leaving the freshly-inked words on the paper.

_Alright, then. Time to try a different approach._

“How about we have some beef stew, tonight?” Bilbo asked, trying his best to keep the smile on his face friendly and genuine. “I can chop up some potatoes and carrots, it would go nicely with the red wine from East Farthing, don’t you think?”

“I find that I am not hungry,” the dwarf said, still not looking at his hobbit. The quill suddenly danced in a flourish, and Bilbo knew Thorin was signing the letter. “Not as much as I am in need of rest.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighed regretfully. He had been looking forward to their first evening together, with a real table and chairs, with a nice hot meal in their plates and golden ale in their tankards. Suddenly, cooking for his companions didn’t sound so delightful if Thorin had no intention to join them. “Well, you did drag almost every piece of furniture around Bag End, so I guess that must have gotten you pretty tired,” he said, trying to sound as unbothered as possible. “If you want to sleep, the master bedroom is-”

“Not where I will spend the night,” Thorin cut in, rolling his scroll tightly in his thick hands. “My bedroll is already laid out, in the spare room, with the others.”

Bilbo inwardly winced, but to be truthful, he hadn’t expected the King to sleep in the same room as he did. It would be some time until he could enjoy the intimacy of sharing a room, a bed with the object of his affections. He had sworn he was not going to push the dwarf since Thorin would not be swayed, especially that night when he was still fuming from their earlier spat.

Bilbo knew better than to insist. “You know, I’ve been thinking… Since we’re going to spend quite some time here waiting for your sister, maybe it would be nice for everyone to have real beds. There’s this carpenter, a man from Bree, I don’t know if he’s still in business but he makes the most wonderful beds this side of the Misty Mountains.” He was rambling, he knew, but he dreaded the heavy silence that would come should he keep quiet. “I thought, you know, maybe tomorrow we could borrow a cart or two, saddle the ponies and pay him a visit. I mean, Bag End has no real guestroom to speak of, and if I leave it to anyone in my family there’s a good chance they have a lot of children already, or are planning to. Extra beds won’t go to waste.”

“A sound plan,” Thorin agreed, tucking his missive inside his tunic which Bilbo knew had a pocket sewn on the breast. “You will have to take it up to Fíli, or any other member of the company, for I won’t be able to help you.”

The start of a hopeful smile was erased from Bilbo’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I am departing for the Blue Mountains tomorrow at first light.”

A stone the size of Dwalin’s trusted hammers dropped in the shireling’s ribcage. For one blessed, naïve second, he thought he had heard wrong. “You… you’re leaving?” he said, firm in his belief that, no, he was not stuttering, and no, his foot was not nervously tapping the nearest table leg, thank you.

“Tomorrow, yes.” With the dancing hue from the candles, Thorin’s eyes appeared almost golden. “This seems to bother you.”

“Well, I… I mean, you ought to take at least a few days of rest, our journey was long,” Bilbo mumbled, quite lamely if he were to be honest. But he had been caught off guard.

“One night will bring me enough rest to travel, don’t concern yourself over it. I am quite surprised, I thought my decision would please you,” Thorin added with a hint of bitterness. “My presence here won’t be a hindrance to you anymore.”

Oh, that… that _insufferable_ dwarf!

“Is that why you want to leave? On a whim?” Bilbo hissed, foregoing his efforts at gentleness. “Never mind the fact that you’ll get lost before you leave the Shire, what use will you be to your sister? Ravens will fly faster or crops will ripen quicker due to your kingly presence?”

“At any rate, I will be more wanted in Ered Luin than here,” Thorin bit back, his hands already flat on the table to support himself should he choose to rise.

“You didn’t give me any time to explain, let alone apologize, you moronic dwarf!” Bilbo gritted his teeth and willed himself to calm down. He would only anger Thorin further and this was _not_ where he had planned to steer the conversation. “Look, I understand that you’re upset, and that I am to blame for it. But I don’t want you to take rash decisions while you’re angry that you might later regret.”

“Trust me, Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbled under his breath as he finally stood. “You have yet to see me angry.”

As the King walked past him to the entrance hall, Bilbo reached out on impulse for his suitor. He completely missed the forearm he was aiming for and only managed to graze the coarse fabric of Thorin’s tunic, right above the elbow. Not quite enough to make him stop, let alone listen.

That was the last Bilbo saw of his âzyungal for the remainder of the evening.

 

* * *

 

 

For all Bilbo had moaned and yearned for his comfortable bed and fluffy pillow when they were on the road, he was unable to find sleep now that he had both.

Rolling around for maybe the fifteenth time that night, the hobbit glanced at the window. It was still pitch black outside, and Bilbo’s worries dampened for a moment only to return, stronger and persisting. When was ‘first light’, anyway? Was it when the sun rose above the eastern hills? Or even sooner, when the skies abandoned their black coats to take on a light blue tinge?

There was no telling when Thorin would set off, and Bilbo feared being awoken in the morning by pony hooves hitting the dirt of the path leading down Bagshot Row. Moreover, he hated that ‘moronic’ would be included in the last words he had told his suitor before his departure.

With a long-suffering groan, Bilbo rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. He had meant to make amends, he really had, but that confounded dwarf had the off-putting particularity to always come up with new annoying schemes. One hour and a pot of delicious beef stew later, Bilbo had felt ready to try again and had ventured to the spare room in the back with the excuse of fetching his dwarrows for dinner.

Thorin had already been asleep, curled up in a corner, his boots and tunic foregone because of Hobbiton’s warm summer nights.

His appetite suddenly lost, Bilbo had retired to bed, hoping that sleep would come easily and that he would wake in time to convince Thorin to stay or, at the very least, see him off with a good breakfast in his stubborn belly. Instead of that, he had spent the last few hours tossing and turning on the mattress, alternatively finding his pillow too soft or too hard, the air in the room switching from burning hot to dazzling cold as his abused heart kept him awake.

He should have never tried to talk at all. He should have walked up to Thorin and kissed the living lights out of the dwarf, hanging onto dark tresses until finally his apologies were accepted. Talking gave way to blunders such as cramming one’s foot into one’s mouth. A tedious business, that, especially when dwarven pride was involved.

Maybe Thorin could yet be swayed. Maybe he could be convinced not to set out on his own in the wild…

The mere prospect of Thorin getting lost, hurt or ambushed on the road made Bilbo powerfully ill, and the hobbit sat up with a heavy sigh. Resigned that sleep would elude him that night, the hobbit threw his legs over the edge of the bed and rose, reaching for his bracers at the bottom of the bed. A trip to the kitchen to get a glass of water would doubtlessly help his feverish mind.

Bilbo clumsily adjusted his bracers’ clasps on his waistband, not even bothering to button up his shirt. The night was warm and his body heat too great to be trapped inside any garment. Were he alone in Bag End, he would forego clothing entirely, but he didn’t fancy the idea of walking into a wandering dwarf in nothing but his birthday suit.

Yes, a glass of water would not be amiss. Perhaps he could indulge in a slice of goat cheese as well, to ease his churning stomach.

In the dark, he padded out of the master bedroom, taking care to open the door as quietly as he could. Fortunately the old contraption did not creak under its own weight and obediently allowed Bilbo into the study. Decades of sneaking out at night to catch fireflies while his parents slept had made him impossibly good at finding his way through Bag End’s halls without any light, and without any noise.

A dull spark of sadness shot through his heart. There were no more parents to slither past in the middle of the night, no more vases to avoid lest he woke his father and get a proper scolding. It was just him now. Just him and a bunch of dwarves.

As Bilbo came to the atrium, he was surprised to see a faint light coming through the kitchen’s door. He frowned; he clearly remembered putting out the candles in that room, leaving only a few lit in the dining room where he had left the stew for the company to eat and all of those had been snuffed out.

_One lamp must have escaped my notice. Oh, well, at least I hope the window is not open. On top of everything, mosquitoes would be a most unwanted addition._

What Bilbo saw when crossed into the kitchen, however, was much bigger than a mosquito.

Thorin had apparently not taken notice of another being standing in the same room as he, engrossed as he was in his study of a tall glass of what looked like milk. He was sitting at the table with his back to the window, his broad chest and shoulders on full display as he had abandoned his tunic.

For a moment, Bilbo chose to stay hidden in the shadows, taking advantage of the moment as one spying on a wild beast would. This was the first time he was allowed a clear view of the dwarf’s upper body without the hindrance of night or bandages, and the sight made Bilbo’s mouth water almost immediately.

He could understand now how people could believe those legends about dwarves being hewn from the very stone they cherished. There was not a single part of Thorin’s front that looked soft or yielding; his body was the perfect reflection of the life he had led, from the moment he was born until that night. Sharp edges and hard muscles were encompassed in tough skin, rendered golden from the flickering lamp on the table. Scars, some of them old and faded and some others more recently-acquired, left pale trails along Thorin’s chest and stomach, sometimes disappearing under the thick dusting of dark fur there. The King’s shoulders were broad and shaped by years of swinging a hammer, his thick arms a testimony to decades of sword training, his large hands covered in small healed nicks from his blacksmithing days.

A sight to behold, no mistake, and to think that Bilbo had been a few layers of clothing from touching it all every time he had hugged the dwarf…

Looking down at his own chest, the hobbit suddenly felt self-conscious. The upper part of his body had always been devoid of any hair, his skin smooth and soft as a newborn’s. Although their quest had stripped his belly of its chubby aspects, a little bit of softness still clung to his hips with determination, hoping one day to thrive thanks to a regular rhythm of seven meals a day. He had no muscles to speak of, except maybe in his arms and back from gardening, probably his feet too. Nothing very impressive, to be honest, unlike the obscene dwarven build he was spying on.

Bilbo was vaguely aware that he had been standing for quite some time now, ogling his suitor as a starving dog would a juicy piece of meat. While he could not really be blamed – the sight of Thorin Oakenshield, dwarven King from the strands of dark hair falling on his square shoulders to his eight and a half-toed feet, would turn anyone’s head – he felt like a pervert in his own house.

He briefly considered going back to bed, but it sounded like a cowardly thing to do under his own roof. Besides, this could be another opportunity to talk with Thorin before morning came.

“Ah, so I’m not the only one fancying a midnight snack, then?”

The look of surprise on Thorin’s face forced a small smirk of delight on Bilbo’s face as the shireling stepped up into the light. When the King recognized the intruder, his features softened somewhat, though he grunted. “You have to stop sneaking up on people. It may endanger your health, one day.”

“You can hardly call what I did ‘sneaking up’ since I thought I was alone. And _you_ should be more aware of your surroundings,” Bilbo teased lightly.

He sat on the bench facing Thorin and noticed that the dwarf had snatched a plate of sesame cakes from the pantry. The sight of the golden pastries made Bilbo’s stomach growl and he threw restraint to the wind, scooping up one treat to bite into with one fluid movement. He bit back a moan of pleasure; that Bracegirdle lass down the market knew her business well.

Bilbo finished off the cake in two mouthfuls, his stomach none too happy about skipping both dinner and supper and making its intentions known in a terribly noisy way. He was halfway through licking his fingers free of the sugar icing when he noticed the way Thorin was staring at him. His blue eyes were dark with something Bilbo couldn’t identify, unblinking and unwavering until the hobbit’s gaze crossed his and Thorin looked away, studying the kettle on the table with utmost care.

Maybe it was the lack of proper clothing or the late hour, but the dwarf seemed to have lost some of his resentment from before. Actually, Thorin looked slightly… uncomfortable, since Bilbo had entered the kitchen. Was he having second thoughts about departing, and his stubbornness kept him from voicing them?

Bilbo’s mind decided that it was quite a lovely night to act Tookish on.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual about it.

Thorin’s eyes briefly flicked back to him. “Obviously,” he mumbled.

“Why?”

“This, I will keep to myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Bilbo had not expected Thorin to sound so annoyed and… disgusted? Now, that was something new, and not entirely pleasant. But Bilbo shoved it all aside and decided to humor the dwarf. “As you wish. But you should get some rest if you still intend to leave in the morning.”

The comment earned him one raised eyebrow and a dubious look. “I thought you didn’t wish for me to leave. Or was I once more mistaken about your expectations?”

Bilbo could not help but roll his eyes. A plague on Thorin’s stiff neck! He sure did not make things any easier. “The world does not revolve around you, dear one. But you were not mistaken: I’d rather have you stay here in Bag End until things are sorted out in the Blue Mountains.”

“Why that?”

It was Bilbo’s turn to feel annoyed. He couldn’t believe he had to explain just why he would rather have his One – or the closest thing to it by hobbit standards – by his side than miles away. “Well, for starters, I highly doubt you would be able to find your way out of the Shire, let alone reach Ered Luin. I’d probably get a letter from Lord Elrond asking me to come and fetch you in Rivendell by week’s end. More seriously, though,” Bilbo added, raising his voice a bit when Thorin gave a low growl, “I think you would just be a burden to your sister.”

When Thorin’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead, the Dragon Riddler knew he had to choose his next words carefully. “I’ve seen how you treat people when something is not to your liking, even if they cannot be blamed for it. Remember when we strayed off the path last year in Mirkwood? Or when we couldn’t find the Hidden Door? You started snapping at everyone even though we were all doing our best, and when you realized nothing would come off it, you closed in and sulked. Is that what you intend to do in the Blue Mountains? Bug your sister about ravens not flying fast enough or crops unwilling to ripen under your insistent glaring, then when she’s finally had enough and slapped you across the face, retreat to a corner to brood?”

“Of course not,” Thorin hissed, his hand squeezing his glass of milk with such force that Bilbo feared it would break. The skin over his shoulders’ muscles was pulled taunt and in spite of the situation, the hobbit felt something hot throb in his belly.

But there was no stopping his Tookish tongue now that it was set loose, not even for the sake of those fine, fine shoulders. “What, then? What will you do, once you get there?”

“I will help in any way I can. I would… well, I will start by…” Thorin’s gaze dropped and ran across the surface of the wooden table, as though a solution was going to sprout from one of the dents there and save him. “Dís will certainly have some task… I guess…”

Partly to save his glass – it was his grandfather’s, after all, even though the Old Took had always preferred large tankards to such fragile things – but also unable to resist touching Thorin’s skin anymore when it was so gloriously put on display, Bilbo reached out and gently uncurled his dwarf’s fingers to hold his broad hand in both of his. “I know you worry, that’s perfectly understandable. But you need to accept that you can’t always control everything. So what if your kin was delayed? They are still coming. Perhaps not this week, or the next, but they are coming anyway. You have waited for decades to reclaim Erebor, can you not wait for your kin a few days more?”

Thorin’s gaze was unfocused and for a few moments Bilbo feared that his words, though spoken gently, had upset the King once more.

But then Thorin sighed and callused fingers squeezed Bilbo’s softer ones. “I am behaving like a dwarfling not out of his first beard, no doubt. But Mahal knows I have been waiting for this moment for so long, to see them all safe… and home. This setback, as minor as it is, has put me out of my right mind.”

“Your mind, along with the rest of your body, has been under a lot of pressure these past few months,” Bilbo whispered, stroking the back of a large hand with his thumbs and revelling in the warmth he found there. “You’ve run from a dragon, taken part in the biggest battle of this century, recovered from deadly wounds and been crowned King, all of this in three months’ time. Not to mention that you’ve just travelled across Middle-Earth all over again.”

“You forget the most tiresome thing of all: I started courting you,” Thorin added, the shadow of a smirk dancing on his lips.

Bilbo flashed a grin of his own but slapped the dwarf’s wrist for good measure. “Extremely rude, that. My point is, you need to take some rest to give your kin a proper welcome and lead them safely to Erebor, where you’ll be so taken by your kingly duties that you’ll have all manner of excuses to botch our courtship.”

“I would never dream of it. Weeks in the Shire, though…” Thorin raised a hand to support his chin, seemingly deep in thoughts for a few seconds. “What is there to do in the Shire, when sleeping and eating are not involved?”

Bilbo made a show of looking downright outraged. “I’ll have you know, my good sir, that hobbit life does not crudely come down to stuffing one’s face full of food until one is ready to fall asleep on the spot! Our culture runs well beyond that!”

“Aye, I forgot you lot also drink enough to put some dwarves to shame.” This time, Thorin did not even attempt to hide his mirth, or to stifle his chuckles at Bilbo’s indignant frown. “Very well, o cultured hobbit, enlighten me as to the marvels this good earth has to offer.”

“First I would like to point out that, while you mentioned food and drink, you failed to put in a good word about our smoking habits, which I find quite unfair since we grow the best leaves in Eriador.” Bilbo tried to suppress a smile, to no avail; the way Thorin’s blue eyes lit up with silent laughter was simply too endearing to be ignored. “As for other activities… I don’t even know where to begin! We fish, we take long walks up and down the hills, we tend to our gardens… have you ever tried gardening?”

“No, sadly I have not.”

“Well, now that’s something we could try. Oh, let’s not forget the summer parties! There’s Midsummer’s Eve, of course, but birthdays and weddings aplenty as well.”

“Excuses to eat, drink and smoke more than you usually would,” Thorin mocked, his own thick thumb now softly kneading Bilbo’s palm.

“Well, there’s that, but I find that dancing and fireworks make a nice addition. Not to mention that I would get to flaunt my handsome suitor around, which is always nice.”

Thorin’s fingers stilled, a bewildered look making its way on the dwarf’s features only to be replaced by suspicion.

It was a bold move, Bilbo knew, but also a very, very necessary one.

“Are you jesting? Because if you are, Bilbo, I must warn you-”

“I am not. Truly.” Bilbo leaned forward to intertwine his fingers with Thorin’s large ones, almost sighing at the feel of rough skin pressed against his own soft palm. He had missed the small touches. “Thorin, I… I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. What I said this afternoon… it was uncalled for and you did nothing to deserve it. I should not try to hide you like one would an embarrassing secret while there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Eru, you’ve already confronted some of your people about our relationship, some of them of great importance, and here I am, trying to stop meaningless old ladies from gossiping in the market.” Bilbo gulped and when staring into Thorin’s eyes became too much, he looked down at their joined hands. “If anyone should hide from shame, it would be me.”

One thick finger caressed the underside of Bilbo’s smooth chin, gently coaxing his head up. The hobbit’s heart skipped a beat at the loving glint in Thorin’s gaze, and when the dwarf retrieved his hand from across the table, it was only to wrap it around Bilbo’s joined ones. “What about… hobbit respectability?” he inquired tentatively, so shyly even that it managed to pull a smile out of Bilbo.

“Respectability and sensible courses of action brought me only boredom, lethargy and a deep fear of coming home late for dinner. To be honest, those are things I am not sorry to leave behind, especially if you are the prize I claim in the end.” Oh, how that pleased smirk on Thorin’s whiskery lips brought warmth to Bilbo’s belly, smug as it was! “And to be truthful, my so-called respectability has already suffered so much from our adventure that it is as good as dead. The only way to make it worse would be to tumble me right on the banquet table on Midsummer’s Eve for the whole world to see.”

“If you keep showing off that tempting body of yours, it just might happen,” the dwarf growled lowly, his eyes leaving Bilbo’s to trail slowly down to his still opened shirt and bare stomach.

Bilbo bit back a giggle; as heated as he felt under Thorin’s intense scrutiny, the thought of the stern-faced, self-conscious King hauling him up on a cake-covered table to have his way with him under the fireworks was bordering on hilarious. He could almost _hear_ Lobelia’s scandalized shrilling.

“You’re one to talk. The night may be warm, but at least I care about decorum enough to put on a proper shirt,” Bilbo replied playfully.

“Yes, well, could you perhaps care about decorum as you sit next to me? I would like to… improve my manners.”

Now, Bilbo may not have been the smartest hobbit to have trodden upon the dirty paths of the Shire – nor the wisest, that had been clearly established one year before – but he knew a plea for intimacy when he heard one. Never one to deny his dwarf, or himself, Bungo’s son all but ran around the table and into Thorin’s side. Laughter bubbled up inside him as a sturdy arm snaked its way around his waist, pulling him tightly to a stone-hard chest where he curled up and sighed. At long last, this day was beginning to look up.

Or maybe this was merely a wonderful new day, already bright and shining although dawn was hours away.

“The things you do to this poor King, you are better off not even imagining,” Thorin rumbled fondly, nuzzling into Bilbo’s hair with something akin to a low purr.

“Naughty dwarf,” his intended chided, slapping at the bare chest near his head and using it as an excuse to stroke the dark fur there. It was soft to the touch, thicker on the pectorals and losing ground to scarred skin as it travelled down the line of Thorin’s stomach to his navel. From there down, the spattering of hair became generous anew only to disappear under the waistband of dwarven breeches.

Bilbo’s fingers itched to follow that enticing dark line but he steeled himself and remained content to explore Thorin’s upper chest for the night.

They stayed like this for a long time, in companionable silence, with frogs singing somewhere in the distance and the occasional hoot from a barn owl breaking the stillness of night. Thorin’s head stayed nestled on Bilbo’s, his warm breath giving life to golden curls as his hobbit’s nimble hands scratched and caressed his tough skin.

“You know,” Bilbo whispered when he began to fear he would fall asleep sitting in his kitchen with a very uncommon pillow under his head, “I wouldn’t terribly mind if you kissed me right now.”

“Demanding creature,” Thorin chuckled, but he obliged and dipped down to deposit a soft kiss on Bilbo’s waiting lips, humming deeply when they yielded. At the first shy lick to his teeth, Bilbo gave a soft noise of surprise but granted access to his mouth nonetheless. He had expected Thorin to keep things as chaste as could be, as per usual, but it seemed the King had other plans. Well, Bilbo was not going to complain, as sure as Paladin Took would win this year’s fishing tournament.

They played for quite a while, not battling for dominance but simply revelling in the other’s warmth. When Thorin’s hand slid down to Bilbo’s lower back to steady him, the hobbit keened lightly and edged closer until he was practically sitting in the dwarf’s lap. He would certainly get an ache in his neck from bending it at such an odd angle, but he would be damned before he wasted one single second of Thorin’s passionate kissing.

He wrapped his arms around the burly dwarven chest as far as they could go, enjoying the sweet ripple of muscles under his fingertips as Thorin moved to accommodate him. His suitor’s free hand came to rest on his knee, pushing up his pant leg to gather a feel of the soft skin hidden under. Long locks of silver-streaked hair slipped from his broad shoulders, tickling his hobbit’s cheeks pleasantly as the hand on his lower back rubbed round shapes into soft skin.

Bilbo moaned against the whiskery lips; for all his face felt raw from Thorin’s beard and the bones in his neck screamed at him to stop, stop, please it hurts, he would not part away. He could not.

“You two need to put up a warning sign or something.”

Thorin’s mouth tore away from Bilbo’s as delicately as a draft horse dragging a plow through a field, and with just as much strength. The shireling gasped, holding onto Thorin’s shoulders for dear life until oxygen finally found its way back to his brain and he turned to glare at the undesirable newcomer.

Kíli looked thoroughly disgusted. “If you’re going to defile a room, please avoid the kitchen. There are things in there that I would like to eat unsullied.”

“Do you actually have a purpose for being here, other than being a plague on everybody’s life?” Thorin snarled, his left hand coming up to rest on the table but his right one stubbornly remaining stuck on Bilbo’s lower back. If the hobbit felt annoyed, then the dwarven King was positively fuming.

Kíli dismissed the harsh inquiry and sauntered over to the table where he sat down as though Thorin had just invited him instead of insulting him. “I couldn’t stay in the room,” he groaned, laying his head down on the wooden surface with a thud. “He’s at it again. It’s worse than when you left.”

Bilbo frowned and glanced from one dwarf to the other quizzically. He remembered Thorin looking just as disgusted as Kíli when he had first asked about the reason for his presence in the kitchen. Maybe it hadn’t been directed at him, after all.

“What about the others?” Thorin asked.

“They are all sleeping, the lucky bastards. The sounds woke me up, and after that… it felt like dying, Uncle. I opened the window, but it’s no good.”

“Aye. It clings to the room, I know.”

Bilbo huffed, feeling terribly left out of the conversation, and not even Thorin’s soothing hand managed to calm him. “What on Arda are you two talking about?” he hissed.

Uncle and nephew looked at him, shared a glance and shook their heads. “Nothing of importance,” Thorin assured.

“Your innocent hobbit ears are not ready for such monstrosities,” Kíli nodded, all solemn-like and serious and Bilbo wouldn’t mind slapping that smart look off. “Such filth should be kept away from- Uncle, is that milk?”

Thorin suddenly grew very, very still. “Yes,” he answered cautiously, “but Kíli… No, don’t!”

The command was spoken too late; Kíli swiftly snatched the glass from the table and downed its content in a few grotesque gulps, slamming the empty glass down with a triumphant grin. Thorin groaned dejectedly and let his face drop in his free hand, muttering curses under his breath that were a mix of Westron and Khuzdul and which meaning was lost on Bilbo.

“You should know better than to answer violence with violence,” he growled at last.

“Perhaps, but this has gone too far. Nobody can impede my sleeping patterns and get away with it!”

“Tomorrow you’ll regret it.”

“Perhaps as well, but for now, I shall claim victory.” Kíli stood up and raised his fist high, shouting at nobody in particular. “Fear my wrath, Bombur! If you think your farts are bad, wait until your nose gets submitted to my fiery blast of doom!”

With more dignity than a soldier heading to battle, the young dwarf charged out of the kitchen.

Leaving his uncle and future uncle in a haze of heavy, uncomfortable silence.

Bilbo cleared his throat. “So… I reckon it’s safe to assume you didn’t leave your sleeping quarters because there was too much on your mind,” he said evenly.

“No,” Thorin answered truthfully, though a bit sheepishly. “That came after.”

“Interesting. And… do I want to ask what Kíli calls his ‘fiery blast of doom’ or am I better off being a naïve hobbit?”

Thorin groaned once more. “Kíli… he does not tolerate milk. His body, that is,” he explained sourly. “Ever since he reached his twentieth nameday, every attempt to eat anything made from milk, be it cheese or butter, has resulted in what our healers call a ‘bodily purge’. In short, any food lingering in his digestive track finds a way out, by whatever means possible.” Thorin pulled a disgusted face. “Before this, however, it gives him the propriety to unleash dreadful gases which stench is nearly suffocating.”

“… Is it really that bad?”

“I’ve stood on a hill made of a thousand corpses of orcs, rotting away under the sun. I still cannot stay in the same room as Kíli when his… special abilities come into play.”

Bilbo winced. “Well, it’s quite fortunate that it doesn’t run in the family.”

“As I gathered, my father was affected by it and my brother Frerin showed the first signs before… well. I am glad I was spared, Mahal knows I would be a very sad dwarf if I had to ban cheese from my life.”

The two of them shared a few private chuckles – Bilbo making a mental note to leave a bucket by the spare room before he went back to bed – and leaned into one another again. The heated mood from before was lost, but they had time now. Time in this cosy smial, away from most prying eyes, to grow closer with each passing day. They didn’t have all the time in the world, of course, but Bilbo would enjoy it while it lasted and they had to go back on a long journey to Erebor.

“I think I’ll sleep in the armchair, in the parlor,” Thorin spoke softly, his lips mouthing at Bilbo’s temple. “It looks comfortable enough, and I want to put as much distance between Kíli and myself as possible at the moment.”

“My bedroom is even further away, if you’d like,” Bilbo said casually, shrugging one shoulder as he caressed a crescent-shaped scar on the dwarf’s forearm.

Thorin gave a deep chuckle and rewarded the hobbit’s cheekiness with a peck on his sun-kissed curls. “As tempting as it sounds, you would keep me up all night with your babbling,” he declined gently, “and I need to be fully rested come morning.”

Bilbo wrenched his head away from the crook of Thorin’s shoulder. He had thought… well, he hadn’t actually said that he would stay in the Shire _out loud_ , but it had been quite heavily implied, hadn’t it? “You’re leaving in the morning?” he stammered for the second time that day.

The frown he was graced with was puzzled. “Yes, of course,” Thorin replied. “Are we still going to see your carpenter from Bree? Or have you already changed your mind?”

Bilbo’s worries scattered as would a flock of frightened ravens and he beamed up at his insufferable, endearing suitor. “Of course not, dearest.”

  

 


	17. A Town of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Bree is quite a filthy place.

“That man’s face when you told him you were buying beds for your seven sons!” Fíli laughed uproariously, startling the pony he was leading out of its daydreaming. “Priceless!”

“Well, I couldn’t say I was housing seven dwarves now, could I? People would start thinking I turned Bag End into some sort of inn,” Bilbo shrugged, pulling on his reins a little bit when Snowball once more tried to stop to nibble at a stray patch of grass sprouting from between cobblestones. “I would have hobbits and men alike lining up at my gate.”

From his position at the back of the group, Thorin snorted. “Nonetheless, to pretend that you fathered septul… seplutet…”

“Septuplets, dearest.”

“Septuplets,” Thorin said, shaking his head in denial as he only ever did every time Thranduil was mentioned. “Is that even possible for hobbit ladies?”

“There is a reason that word exists, you know. But I admit that it is very, very rare and I have never witnessed it,” Bilbo admitted, chuckling softly at Thorin’s whispered ‘preposterous’. “Anyway, it was fortunate that he already had five bedframes at the ready and agreed to have the remaining two varnished by tomorrow morning. Otherwise our stay in Bree would have been much longer, which I did not particularly care for.”

“You dislike Bree?” Thorin asked politely, expertly manoeuvring his pony around a cart full of flowers quite inconveniently placed in the middle of the street.

Yes, Bilbo did, and he said as much. The whole town was muddy, even on bright summer days, and not the earthy kind of mud you might have found in the middle of a field after the afternoon rain. No, this mud was thick and smelt worse than cowpat left to fester under the sun; it clung to feet and hooves until it crusted over and left an olfactory gift that lasted for days.

Bree was also swarmed with people at all hours, merchants, travellers and farmers alike, all looking for a good trade or a full pint of ale – or both, not necessarily in that specific order. Most of them were Men, with the occasional hobbit sitting around and blowing smoke rings in the dusty air. There was a rush in their steps and a nervous glint in their eyes that could only be attributed to city folk, and Bilbo knew that all manner of thieves and bounty hunters lurked in the darkest streets of Bree.

Bilbo had always kept his dealings with that town to a minimum, to be met with success so far. He had no care for the fabulous handcrafted silverware or silk curtains on display down Trader’s Gate; he only came when he needed something that could not be found within the boundaries of the Shire, and even then he did so reluctantly.

The presence of the three dwarves closest to his heart by his side helped, though.

The hardest part had been getting Dwalin to stay behind as his King wandered the busy streets of Bree unattended. But the warrior was not overly fond of Men, and Thorin had felt it best to leave him in Hobbiton. Upon hearing this, as could be expected, Dwalin’s hackles had puffed up and he had told the ruler of Erebor in no uncertain terms where he could shove his considerations. Or at least it had to have been that, if the string of barked Khuzdul and Thorin’s disapproving frown were anything to judge by. It had taken a great amount of gentle coaxing – and the promise of an entire batch of cookies – from Bilbo to convince Dwalin that he would be more useful standing guard over Bag End while they were gone.

Then, there had been Kíli. The lad’s head had still been deeply buried in a bucket when he had heard word about his older brother going on a trip to Bree with Bilbo and Thorin. From then on, there had been no getting rid of him, regardless of the battle still taking place in his guts. The lad had practically latched himself on his uncle – in spite of numerous and very vocal protests regarding vomit and how hard it was to wash out – and badgered him until he was allowed to tag along. To his credit, Kíli had been doing well since their departure, only ducking twice behind a tree to bend to his intestines’ will. By the time they had reached Bree’s West Gate, it was as though no milk had ever crossed his lips the previous night. Or so anyone who hadn’t been sleeping in the spare room that night would believe.

The Crafting Hall had been overly packed with people, Hobbits and Men alike, haggling over wares or simply having a look around. Of course, the blacksmiths’ stalls took up more than half the Hall, layering it with armors and weapons of various qualities and makes. Thorin’s features, hard as steel and full of mistrust in the middle of so many member of the Tall Folk, had brightened quickly upon discovery of a dwarven-made shop held by a red-haired dwarf – “From the Firebeard clan,” Thorin had later informed Bilbo. “A wandering crafter, much like I was.” – who had fallen into excited Khuzdul at the sight of Thorin and his nephews, so glad to come across other dwarves that he had momentarily forgotten the secret implications that came with this language.

There had been no unlatching the sons of Durin from the engraved daggers and sharp-edged pipes then. With a sigh and the curl of a polite smile, Bilbo had had to wait until Fíli had chosen yet one more knife to add to the collection hidden on his body and Kíli picked a black leather belt to replace his old one. Even sour-faced Thorin bought a set of dwarven tunics with matching pants, if only to be able to change clothes while they resided in Bag End.

Purchasing seven beds from a bewildered carpenter had taken much, much less time.

“I’m still thinking about that battle axe, though,” Kíli mused as they walked. “It looked great.”

“Kíli, last time you tried to wield an axe as big as that one, you almost cut off Dwalin’s beard,” Thorin reminded his nephew with one raised eyebrow. “Stick to arrows, for everybody’s sake.”

Kíli gave an indignant huff. “Of course, have your fun, Mister I-Can-Wield-Anything. One day I will be so skilled that I will defeat you with a fork and take over the throne.”

“Mh, Kilí, King Under the Mountain… Mahal save us all from such demise.”

“While you’re fishing for divine gifts, be a dear and ask Yavanna to grant me the strength to put up with you lot,” Bilbo growled. “By everything that is green, there is only one street between the Crafting Hall and the inn, yet you still manage to quarrel.”

The hobbit cast a nervous glance skywards. Those dark clouds were closing in and he did not fancy a late afternoon summer shower, thank you.

The boys were fortunately silent until they reached the Prancing Pony Inn. Its rickety sign looked about to fall off, and some parts of the roof definitely seemed about to cave in, but it still was the most renowned establishment of Bree. Maybe it was the wondrous, golden ale being served in the fire-warmed dining area, or the great cooking skills of the two hobbit chefs – or the relative closeness of Bree’s brothel, who knew – but the inn had yet to see an idle day.

Which represented a whole new kind of problem.

“I hope they have rooms left, I’d rather not be wandering the streets when it starts to rain,” Bilbo groaned, earning a wicker from Snowball.

Thorin chuckled and took the reins from his intended’s hand. “Why don’t you go and secure rooms, then? Take Kíli with you, he looks like he is about to collapse.”

“I’m not,” the lad rebuffed, crossing his arms and growling when his older brother snatched the reins from his grasp.

“Yes, you are,” Fíli countered. “You’re running out of energy, emptying your stomach all day and whatnot. Uncle and I will find somewhere to put the ponies for the night, we’ll join you in a jiffy.”

A playful rubbing of his messy hair and the promise of a bit of dinner were enough to sway Kíli, who trailed after Bilbo as a kicked puppy would.

“They mean well,” the hobbit offered before they reached the threshold, patting the young archer’s elbow sympathetically.

“They think I’m weak, but I’m not,” Kíli hissed, but he leaned into the comforting touch nonetheless. “They acted like this on the quest, too, you’d have thought I was a bloody dwarfling. ‘Kíli, go to sleep, we’ll take watch’ ‘Kíli, here’s some of my stew, you’ll need the energy’ ‘No, Kíli, these orcs are too strong for you, better step back and cheer us on from the sidelines.’”

Bilbo sighed. To be young and reckless… “You’re the youngest member of this family, of course they want to shelter you. When you act all naïve and get yourself into lots of trouble, even I sometimes feel the need to coddle you. Not that I will,” he added quickly when Kíli shot him a death glare that would have made his uncle proud. “If anything, _I_ will be the one needing your protection when we step into that inn. Otherwise I’m likely to get trampled, what with these blasted Men being thrice my size and well into their pints at this hour!”

The look Kíli bestowed upon Bilbo was still unconvinced, but the lad’s shoulders lost some of their heavy slumping and his chest puffed up the slightest bit. The hobbit hid a grin; appealing to dwarves’ superior strength never failed to have them preening and complying to whatever task you had in mind. Bilbo stored that bit of information in a drawer at the back of his mind for later use on a certain dwarven King.

A strong wave of warmth and laughter hit Bilbo when he pushed the heavy oaken door of the inn – unfortunately accompanied by the stench from a hundred men’s sweat-soaked armpits after a long summer day of hard work. Bilbo wrinkled his nose but with a muttered ‘oh sweet springtime’ he pushed on, Kíli’s steps a steady presence at his back.

The innkeeper, a round-bellied man with graying hair and a partially bald head – Barliman Butterbur his name was, if Bilbo recalled correctly – gave the shireling a wide smile over his well-polished counter. “Welcome, my friend, welcome! And how may I be of service to you for the evening?”

Bilbo gave him a polite smile of his own. Hobbits, he knew, were well-known and well-liked in Bree, though mostly their pleasantness came from the fact that they were willing to pay a high price for good food, and a lot of it. “I’m looking for rooms for my companions and myself,” he explained, raising his voice over the rambunctious bouts of laughter filling the room. You’d think that travelling with thirteen rowdy dwarves would have made Bilbo immune to such volumes of conversation.

“Your companions?” Barliman’s beady eyes trailed over Bilbo’s eyes and narrowed when they rested on Kíli. “Dwarves?”

Bilbo mentally winced at the bitterly-spat word and his hand shot behind him to grasp the young archer’s wrist when he felt him tense. There was a pause, and a relieved sigh when Kíli relaxed; how very fortunate that it was Thorin’s nephew, and not the King himself, standing behind Bilbo at that moment. He would have given the innkeeper’s mouth a thorough washing.

“Yes, Dwarves,” Bilbo replied casually, though his eyebrow quirked. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I’d usually say no to that question, but we’ve had a few problems with a bunch of wandering dwarves from the Blue Mountains this year,” Barliman pursued, his greenish eyes flicking from Bilbo to his long-haired companion. “Don’t fancy another brawl and replacing tables and chairs again.”

“My three friends are family, an uncle and his two nephews in fact. They’re very peaceful and would never start a fight, this I can assure you.” Oh, well. Half a lie, anyway.

Barliman’s gaze was still suspicious, but he seemed to finally decide that if a hobbit, a child of the kindly west, found these dwarves peaceful, then he had no reason to be afraid. “Fine, then. But I only have one room with three beds left, Man-sized at that. With Midsummer’s Eve approaching and all that, come nightfall I hardly have one spot left to cram in a mouse.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but groan. _Three_ beds…

“It’s alright, Bilbo,” Kíli said with a smile, his previous annoyance quite forgotten. “I can bunk with Fíli, it won’t be anything we’ve never done.” Then, with a wicked smirk and a lowered voice: “Unless you and Uncle wish to-”

“Oh, do shut up,” Bilbo growled, turning back to the bushy-bearded innkeeper. “We’ll take the room.”

With a nod and half a smile, Barliman fished something from his pocket. When he handed it over the counter, it turned out to be a rusty key with the number seven engraved on one side. “First floor, last one on the right. Will we have you for dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until Kíli nearly polished off his first pint of ale that Thorin and Fíli saw fit to grace the inn with an entrance.

Their eyes scanned the rooms until they rested on the table Bilbo had claimed for the evening, in a corner and well away from the fireplace where some sort of arm-wrestling competition was taking place.

Bilbo smiled when Thorin unbuckled Orcrist from his back and propped it up against the table, taking a seat next to his hobbit. His dark hair was somewhat damp, testimony that they had caught the beginning of the shower on their way to the inn. “About time. We were going to order dinner without you and eat by ourselves,” he teased to hide his glee at having the King sitting so close to him. “Did you have trouble finding a free space in the stables?”

“Not at all, there was plenty of available space. May I?” Thorin asked, gesturing to Bilbo’s half emptied pint. At Bilbo’s nod, he brought it to his lips and made quick work of what remained in two drawn-out mouthfuls. The soft noise of contentment as he put the mug down was not lost on his intended, nor was the hint of a tongue as it quickly lapped up some foam from his whiskery lips.

Fíli gave his brother a pleading look, but when Kíli growled and clutched his own pint to his chest, the blonde dwarf sighed. “The ponies were quite calm when we took off their gears but they threw a fit when we tried to brush them and clean their hooves.”

“Correction,” Thorin interjected, leaning back against the wall. “The ponies _you_ were looking after threw a fit.”

Fíli groaned and shot Kíli a dark look. “It’s your bloody Plum’s fault. She would not let me brush her mane, all tangled that it was. She upset Topaz, who in turn would not let me wash her hooves and kept stepping on my toes.”

“You know Plum only allows me to brush her mane,” Kíli pointed out.

“A wonder, that, when one knows how well you take care of your own hair.”

“Why, you orc-smelling pile of-”

“As it turns out,” Bilbo almost shouted to cover the young ones’ rising voices, “we are allowed to stay for the night only because I told the innkeeper that you three were nice, quiet dwarves. Don’t make a liar out of me, please.” The hobbit once more turned to Thorin. “Snowball?”

The dwarf looked up from where he had been longingly peering into the depths of the empty mug. “Impeccable, as always. He held his legs out before I bent to wash them, he even let me check his teeth and clean his eyes without so much as a jolt.”

“Good lad,” Bilbo grinned proudly. “I’ll sneak him an apple before we go to bed.”

“Speaking of food…”

Kíli’s enthusiastic waving caught the waitress’ attention, in spite of his brother’s hisses to be more respectful. This didn’t seem to faze the lass, for she soon was nearing their table, a smile on her youthful face as she rubbed her hands down her green apron. “Evening, misters! What would you like to… oh, it’s you!”

For a moment, Bilbo thought she had recognized him from his few visits to Bree, although the lass’ face was completely unknown to him. He was about to compliment her on her memory when it dawned on him that her eyes were not set on him at all.

Rather, they were staring at a bewildered dwarven King. “Me?” Thorin managed to rasp out.

“Yes!” The smile on her face could have lit the whole room, if need be. “You came here last year, or maybe the year before that. You had dinner with a tall, old man if I recall correctly.”

Thorin was speechless, stupor leaving him to blink quite comically. “I… that is correct. I am astonished, you have excellent memory, my lady.”

“Oh please, it’s just Naren,” the barmaid giggled. “And I don’t have that good a memory. We just don’t see a lot of Dwarves in these parts, so we are bound to remember them. Especially those with a bearing such as yours.”

Up until then, Bilbo had been observing the conversation pleasantly, finding great amusement in Thorin’s speechlessness. But with Naren’s last words and the slender hand she ran down the King’s right shoulder, something ugly reared its head in the hobbit’s chest and hissed. Unconsciously, he scooted closer, until his knee bumped into Thorin’s and his furred foot rubbed against a thick boot.

Bilbo only allowed some tension to leave his body after food was ordered and Naren sent on her way to the kitchens.

“So… Gandalf then?” he asked casually.

“I was eating by myself, minding my own business, when the meddling wizard invited himself,” Thorin growled. “He practically ordered me to rally the seven dwarven clans and lay siege on Erebor to destroy Smaug. Then he tried to bully me into accepting a hobbit as a burglar, to which I said yes if only to be allowed some peace.”

“How very charming,” Bilbo huffed, digging in the rucksack he kept on hand, but no, he had forgotten his pipe. A pity.

“If I must speak the truth, then I admit I was not impressed with the idea of hiring a halfling as a burglar at first,” Thorin said softly, his blue eyes turning to Bilbo. “Of course, that was before I witnessed your abilities and took real notice of your worth.”

“Before you two started tearing one another’s pants off, you mean?” Kíli commented slyly.

Bilbo rolled his eyes and was about to put in a snide word about how they were probably years away from that particular event happening – if it ever happened – due to Thorin being Arda’s biggest prude, but the return of Naren laden with plates made the sentence die in his throat.

The barmaid deposited a bowl of chicken soup before each of them, as well as a basket of fruit and a plate of cheese in the middle of the table. “Here you are, misters, drinks are coming up shortly. Oh, allow me, I’ll refill that.”

With yet another unnerving smile – how strange… at what point exactly had the polite smile become so distasteful to Bilbo’s eyes? – Naren retrieved the empty tankard from Thorin’s hand, her delicate fingers sliding neatly along the dwarf’s thicker ones. Bilbo expected annoyance to flash across Thorin’s features at such an invasion of his personal space; he did not, however, expect the polite smile and mumbled ‘thank you’ that his suitor offered.

The dwarves quickly tucked in the wonderful-smelling food but Bilbo found his appetite slightly hindered. His condition only worsened when the dark-haired barmaid came back with their tankards and – _Mahal grant me strength!_ – another friendly hand to Thorin’s shoulder. To another the touch might have appeared casual, but if one were to squint a tad which was exactly what Bilbo was doing, they may have noted the lingering edge with which the slender fingers trailed along the fur-rimmed coat.

It infuriated Bilbo, really, how the corners of Thorin’s mouth would tug up in a warm smile to mirror Naren’s. How did it come into being that he had had to work weeks, months even, to get the insufferable dwarf to acknowledge his presence, putting his life on the line in order to do so, and that such attentions were so easily bestowed upon a complete stranger?

Unless… unless this lass was _not_ a complete stranger, perhaps?

“Is something the matter, dearest?”

Thorin’s deep voice brought Bilbo out of his thoughts. Any other day, at any other hour, his suitor’s use of an endearment in a public setting would have delighted him. But that night it only made the knot in his chest more uncomfortable.

“Oh, nothing,” the hobbit replied sourly, poking at a chunk of chicken with his wooden spoon.

“You are not eating, so certainly, it is something,” Thorin countered, his gaze now worried as well as puzzled. “Do the Men make you uneasy? I assure you, with me by your side, you have nothing to fear.”

“I’m sure,” Bilbo said bitterly. “Since you seem to be so well-known around here, I have no reason to worry.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Heavy silence settled over the table when Bilbo failed to provide an answer. Fíli and Kíli, probably sensing that a storm was brewing inside the inn as well as outside, shared an unsure glance and promptly finished off what was left in their bowls. With muttered excuses that they wanted to see the arm-wrestling contest, the lads snatched their tankards and fled the table, leaving only a trail of dust in their wake.

“Well?” Thorin asked, his tone still gentle. For the moment.

Apparently, Bilbo’s wits had decided to go on a holiday, taking up residence anywhere but where the hobbit could find them. He suddenly felt very stupid under the dwarf’s expectant eyes, and unable to come up with a decent answer.

“I was just wondering if the only thing you did last time you came here was eat,” he mumbled moodily, now stabbing at floating slices of carrot as though he held them personally accountable for the predicament he found himself in.

Thorin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “No, if I recall correctly I also rented a room for the night. How is that of importance?”

“And you slept in that room… alone?”

“I don’t see where you are heading with this.”

Bilbo gave a long-suffering sigh. A curse on Dwarves and their dense skulls. “It just struck me as odd that you and that barmaid are not behaving as… well, as the strangers you are supposed to be.”

Thorin seemed to ponder the words for a few heartbeats, before his eyebrows shot up high on his forehead and a look of utter surprise was plastered on his features. “Now I see where this is heading, and I must say, I don’t like it in the slightest.”

“I-I’m not accusing you of anything, though!” Bilbo stammered. “We weren’t even aware of each other’s existence at the time. With you always on the road, travelling, you must have gotten quite lonely, it’s only normal that you… well…” The hobbit gulped and tried to force the thoughts of someone else, some faceless stranger with no care at all, tumbling into sheets with Thorin’s arms around them and a short-cropped beard scratching at their skin. His efforts were met with little success, and the knot in his stomach coiled further. “I’d just like you to give me a warning before, you know… we come across your past dalliances.”

“Past dall- Are you _out of your mind_ , Bilbo?” Thorin growled through gritted teeth. “Do I strike you as the kind to simply throw myself in bed with the first stranger who crosses my path? Do you think so lowly of me?”

“How am I supposed to know?” the hobbit hissed back, tightening his hold on his spoon. “I’ve known you for two ridiculous years, what are those to the near two centuries you’ve lived before that? You won’t make me believe you have been alone all this time!”

“I am no stranger to coupling, if that is what you mean by this, however that takes us back to my youth and I have not allowed anybody into my bed for well over a century now. Are you satisfied?”

Yes. No. Perhaps… Bilbo didn’t know. So many emotions were battling in his mind under Thorin’s outraged scrutiny and they were so evenly-matched that he had trouble deciding on a winner. Of course he felt jealous that someone else was once allowed to lay hands on Thorin’s body, no matter how far removed and few the dwarf’s lovers had been, then again if Thorin had really spent the last century alone… he felt sorry for the once-exiled King.

Bilbo needed some time. He needed to sort his feelings out, preferably somewhere Thorin was not glaring at him with poorly-concealed annoyance. Fiddling with an apple in the basket Naren had brought, he figured it might be just the right time to make good on his promise to bring Snowball a reward.

“I-I need some air,” he blabbered, his fingers already closing around the plump fruit as he rose from the bench. “It’s all stuffy in here, and I forgot my pipe in my saddlebag so… yes. I’ll be right back.”

Without so much as a ‘by your leave’ Bilbo fled the table, unable to bear Thorin’s aggravated frown a second longer. Never looking back, the hobbit dug his way through the crowd of laughing, sweaty men with his elbows and hastily-muttered excuses.

He was only too happy when he reached the door, in spite of the heavy curtain of rain pounding holes into the mud just outside in the street. Without really stopping to think about it, Bilbo tugged his waistcoat up to cover some of his hair and ran for the stables, where he shook wetness from his head and dusted his clothes.

He hadn’t meant to rush off, really, but he had felt like he might explode from the sheer awkwardness of it all. His misplaced jealousy had made him look like a fool in front of his suitor, and for what? A light touch or two on a clothed shoulder, along with a few friendly smiles. Had it been like this for Thorin, that night at Beorn’s house all those weeks before? Had the dwarf felt the ugly snake coiling around his heart and emptying his head of all sense as well?

Bilbo silently made his way to a corner where four fairly recognizable ponies were munching on hay, undisturbed by the heavy rain or the steady rolls of thunder in the distance. He squeezed in the space between Jango and Snowball to give his white pony a friendly pat on the nose. The beast responded with a soft nicker, his curious lips already mouthing at the hobbit’s hand that was curled around the apple.

So what if Thorin had taken others to his bed? It was not exactly as if Bilbo was a virgin himself, the long summers and numerous parties had long seen to that. He had had his fair share of romps in the hay, with one lass or another, though it had been quite some time – a decade or two, in fact – since he had last indulged. Casual intercourse under the stars lost a good deal of appeal when you were Belladonna Took’s son, a curious little thing but not quite respectable enough to marry.

With time, Bilbo had learned to cope with the lonely lifestyle of a bachelor, had even settled into it with the firm belief that he didn’t need more than his prized tomatoes and his dear books to be happy. That is, of course, until Thorin Oakenshield and his steel-capped boots came along.

“I’m quite the idiot, don’t you think?” Bilbo whispered to Snowball, finally offering the pony the apple he had brought. “I’m too old to play the part of the jealous intended, and Thorin never pretended to be innocent in these matters. I’m being picky, I am.” He carded his fingers through Snowball’s mane, smiling a little at the absence of knots. A very fine job, his dwarven suitor had done. “I should just be glad that for the rest of our lives, he wishes to be… well, mine. Don’t you think?”

Almost right on cue, his mount neighed drowsily, stuffing his nose into Bilbo’s palm to look for more of the delicious golden treat. When he found none, Snowball gave a disappointed huff and lowered his head to the stack of hay once more.

Bilbo chuckled and patted the pony’s strong neck. “Thank you for your time, boy. You’re a good lad.”

“As I hope yeh are, m’boy.”

Bilbo whirled around so swiftly that he narrowly avoided snapping his own neck in the process.

He hadn’t heard the three men’s steps, probably because of the rain. In the semi-darkness he would be hard pressed to make out their features as well, it was only their distinctive height and thick accent that helped him identify them as Tall Folk.

Even as panic rose in his throat – for he couldn’t think of a hobbit who wouldn’t be frightened, if three men were to corner him – Bilbo’s manners were his lifeline. “May I help you?” he asked, his hand foolishly reaching to his side where he knew he would find nothing. Sting was still inside, propped up snugly against Orcrist where his haste to leave the room had left it.

“Depends. Yeh just might,” the same man spoke, his speech slurred from a tankard too many. He was the shortest of the group but still towered about two feet over Bilbo.

The hobbit swallowed his uneasiness and was about to speak up when one of the two other men – a tall one, even by his race’s standards – beat him to it. “That him, I’m sure. Saw him with them dwarves down by Trader’s Gate. Bought a lot of fine stuff there, too, his pockets must be full of gold.”

Bilbo’s heart dropped to the bottom of his guts. He should have known better than to leave the security of the inn. “Oh, is this a thieving attempt?” he asked snidely, for certainly if he had held his ground before Smaug the Terrible, three tipsy men would be child play. And if not, well, he still had his old Ring in his breast pocket, so there was no real danger here. Or at least he tried to tell his hyperventilating subconscious. “I am terribly sorry, had I know I would have come out with a few coins, unfortunately I left all my belongings in the care of the three dwarves you mentioned. Feel free to step inside and ask them for gold.”

There was a pause as the three men were stunned into silence; whether they were disappointed at the lack of gold to steal or surprised that a halfling could talk back with such bite, Bilbo didn’t know, but he secretly hoped it was the latter. It did wonders to calm his raging heartbeat.

“I say it’s horse shit,” the short man blurted out. “He’s lyin’ through his lil’ ferret teeth!”

“Ferret?” Bilbo growled. “Now you listen here, the last one who called me a ferret didn’t live to see dawn-”

“One way to find out, get ‘im!”

Before Bilbo could so much as give an outraged squeak, the shortest and tallest members of the small group pounced on him. Their massive bulks soon had him pined to the hay-covered ground, and as one aggressor held his arms over his head, the other one was free to roam his hands all over his body, groping, squeezing, pinching at fabric with the fervent belief that at some point, he would be rewarded with the clinking of coin.

Bilbo felt entirely uncomfortable with the whole business and tried to kick the offending hands off his body. When the tall man who was holding him down stilled his legs by sitting on them, Bilbo bit back a growl of frustration and squirmed around as violently as he could. In this position he could not reach inside his waistcoat for his Ring, and the dread that that filthy man could find it grew with each passing second. He should have never left Sting in the inn. Mahal, he should have never left the inn at all!

“Nuthing,” the searching man bemoaned, mercifully drawing his digging fingers away. “Seems he was tellin’ the truth, after all.”

“Damn.” Above Bilbo, the tall man’s grip on the hobbit’s wrist lessened some as he turned to face the third man still standing. “What do we do now?”

Bilbo craned his neck to get a look. The remaining man had not budged from his spot, nor had he opened his mouth to speak. His features were still uncertain, but as Bilbo’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could make out a beard framing the stranger’s jaw.

“He may not have gold,” the third man finally said in a deep, steady voice that gave away that he was not nearly as drunk as his partners, if he was at all, “but he still possesses something of worth. Hold him down.”

Confusion filled Bilbo’s mind as the broad-shouldered man stepped closer, his thick boots beating a dull rhythm against the cobblestones. Something of worth? Did that man somehow knew about the Ring? No, of course not. The only being other than Bilbo to have suspicions about the Ring was Smaug, and the dragon was rotting at the bottom of a lake. What then? Was he to be taken as a hostage, his freedom to be exchanged for a plump bag of coins?

It was only when the tell-tale sound of a buckle coming loose echoed in the empty stables that it finally clicked, and Bilbo’s mind went blank from white hot horror.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating will probably climb up a notch with the next chapter, just to be safe. Hope you enjoyed!


	18. One Step Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: rating went up because of delicate matters (some of them bad, others more enjoyable) being introduced in this chapter. I'm not saying any more, but well, some new tags made it into the family so...

 

With each step the man took, his buckle clicked in the darkness, encouraging Bilbo to struggle harder against the four hands pining him to the ground. He arched his back and twisted his spine, trying his hardest to wriggle out of their grip, to absolutely no avail.

“Yer into halflings?” the shortest man, the one on Bilbo’s left, asked.

“Had one hobbit lass or two since I settled here,” the walking man said as normally as if it was a simple conversation about the rain and how annoying it would be to wash mud stains from his shirt. “I’ve never had a lad, though, and that one is quite the fine sight. Not overly fat and skittish like most of them.”

“Well… whatever, just get it o’er with,” the tallest man slurred, obviously a bit disgusted at his partner’s intentions.

He could not have been more revolted than Bilbo, at any rate. It was a miracle the hobbit had not managed to break any bone yet, struggling as he was. As the man came to a stop near Bilbo’s bare feet and dropped to his knees, a freezing spike of dread shot through the shireling’s core and bile rose in his throat. Briefly, he counted himself lucky that he hadn’t touched his dinner, for it would be all over the cobblestones by now. No, his dinner was probably still sitting by Thorin, right where he ought to be.

Thorin. Thorin!

“ _THORIN_!” Bilbo screamed at the top of his lungs, reaping startled gasps from the two men holding him. “ _THOR_ \- mph!”

“Quiet you brat!” the short man hissed, his clammy hand clamped down on Bilbo’s mouth so tightly that biting was not an option – although the hobbit tried in earnest. When he spoke again he sounded much more sober. “Ulfrik, can’t we just go? He’ll have attracted the whole damn neighbor’ood with that holler! Better just leave while we can!”

“Don’t worry, this will be quick.”

Bilbo’s hands itched to scratch and tear and claw at the three men’s faces, but no matter how hard he wriggled his wrists would not spring free. It felt like he was shackled to the ground, helpless to do anything as the man not holding him leaned ever forward.

It was not as though he had never lain with another male before. He had been a very curious hobbit in his youth, a very Tookish one, and had from time to time found himself both on the giving and receiving end of such encounters. But they had all been Hobbits, the lot of them, not Men twice his size!

Bilbo managed to twist his head enough to throw Snowball a frantic look, but the pony was busy munching on hay. The surge of disappointment that swelled in the hobbit’s chest was ridiculous; had he really expected the clueless beast to come to his aid? This showed just how desperate he was.

His whole body gave a jerk when rough hands tugged his pants down, not even bothering with the laces. His frightened yelp was muffled by the hand still gagging him and frustrated tears prickled at the corner of his eyes at the feeling of cold, damp ground under his bare bottom and cool night air brushing his nether bits.

This was no nightmare, was it? Bilbo Baggins, the Stinging Fly, the Thief in the Shadows, the Dragon Riddler, was really going to end up brutally violated in some cold stables a stone’s throw away from the borders of the Shire whereas he had crossed Middle-Earth and all its dangers to come out unscathed. A bitter, hoarse laugh was in his throat, though the luxury to let it out was not his.

When calloused palms grabbed his hips, he forced thoughts of Thorin to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps that would ease the dreadful ordeal…

“I strongly suggest you step away this instant.”

The deep, strong voice had not been imagined, however. It was little more than a warning growl yet it brought fresh tears of relief to Bilbo’s eyes.

Thorin. Thorin was here. It would be alright.

His would-be assaulter – Ulfrik, the other man had called him – lost interest in Bilbo and stood up, his opened buckle making weak clinking sounds that were almost entirely drowned out by the splashes of the downpour just outside the stables.

The hand on his mouth offered no resistance when Bilbo raised his head to watch the on-goings. It was still too dark to see clearly, but he would have identified Thorin’s stance even in the darkest of nights. The slender form of Orcrist strapped to the dwarf’s hip was a welcome sight as well.

However, Ulfrik didn’t seem very impressed. “Or you’ll do what, dwarf?” he snarled.

“I will make this clear. Either you and the other two dogs run from my sight this very moment, or I smash your teeth in,” Thorin stated with a levelheadedness that was very unsettling, given the nature of the situation and the King’s hot temper.

Ulfrik gave a bark of a laugh. “How ‘bout _you_ get away from my sight, you stone-humpin-”

The man never had the opportunity to finish his sentence. There was a sharp, dull sound that could only match that of Thorin’s steel-capped boot slamming into an unprotected knee, and Ulfrik howled as he went down. A flash of dark hair later and the dwarf had the man dangling before him, fingers clenched around both ears to keep him at eye level.

“Too bad for your teeth,” Thorin growled, ignoring Ulfrik’s pleading fingers as they pawed at his forearms to get him to loosen his grip. Instead, the dwarf brought his head back and head-butted the man so hard that Bilbo was half convinced – and not terribly concerned – that his skull would split open.

When Ulfrik slid down to the ground, coughing up blood as well as the occasional tooth, the hand gagging Bilbo was removed and its owner struggled to his feet. “Ulfrik!” he shouted, anger dripping from his words. “You sick pile of shit, what have you done to him?”

“I gave him a fair warning, one he chose to ignore,” Thorin stated casually. “You Men have quite the imprudent tongue, for ones with such a fragile constitution.”

With a strangled cry that sounded more like a dying pig than a battle roar, the short man barrelled toward Thorin, his hands outstretched as if to grab the dwarf. Thorin did not move a muscle, and Bilbo almost cried out a warning, but when the man collided with the shorter body he was thrown back and to the ground, as though he had just run into a wall of iron. Instantly, Thorin was on him and the sickening cracks that came with bone breaking began to fill the otherwise quiet stables.

Bilbo didn’t quite know whether Thorin was gagging his victim with his broad hand much like Bilbo had been gagged or if the man was already unconscious, but no sound other than heavy shuffling came from the shapeless lump of the two wrestlers. Added, of course, to the sharp cracks that Bilbo could not find in himself to feel revolted about, for once.

When Thorin deemed it was enough, he stood, and the pained whine that escaped the writhing form on the cobblestones told Bilbo that the man had been very conscious during the whole ordeal. He may have found some satisfaction in this, and he certainly would later – when he wasn’t shaking like a leaf in a winter breeze.

“Well,” Thorin drawled as he walked up to where Bilbo was lying down, his voice as soft and dangerous as a cotton-clad dagger, “is there any way to make you see reason or will you be as foolish as your companions?”

Bilbo blinked, his muddled thoughts unable to figure out why Thorin was speaking to him thusly, but it soon occurred that the one being addressed was the third remaining man. The tall fellow was still sitting next to Bilbo, though his hands hadn’t been on the hobbit for a while – a fact that had entirely escaped Bilbo, mesmerized as he was by Thorin’s sudden appearance.

There was no mistaking the small jolts that ran across the man’s body for anything else than they really were: terrified shivers. And who could blame him, really, when his two partners were lying on the ground, keening and choking on their own blood, all thanks to the dwarven monster currently closing in on him?

With more stealth than could be expected from such a tall – not to mention drunk – man, the would-be thief scrambled to his feet and ran, giving Thorin a wide berth that had him colliding with a snoozing horse. With a frightened yelp, the nameless man rushed to his fallen comrades and frantically nudged them up.

It only took seconds for them to flee the stables, the fear of receiving more wounds stronger than the pain rushing through their bodies.

Time stood still for an impossibly long moment, with Thorin standing as still as a wolf straining its ears for the sound of an intruder, before all dams broke and Bilbo’s tears spilled.

In a heartbeat, Thorin was by his side, kneeling in damp hay and gathering his hobbit’s body in his arms. Bilbo went willingly, grabbing fistfuls of tunic as he let the aftershocks of his anxiety and horror rack his body and milk it free of any tear. Thorin’s arms around his slumped form were steel, strong and squeezing a little too tight but oh, Bilbo didn’t care. As long as they remained there, they were welcome to choke him to death.

He didn’t know how long he remained there, slouched between Thorin’s kneeling legs with his lips buried down the side of the dwarf’s neck, wetly mouthing ‘sorry, sorry, sorry’ against warm skin over and over. For it was all his fault, wasn’t it? He had wandered alone without a proper weapon, certainly he deserved the fright these men had given him. But with each sob, with each choked out apology, Thorin merely tightened his embrace and kissed the top of Bilbo’s head with a reverence that brought fresh tears to the shireling’s hazel eyes.

It was only when Bilbo’s sobbing hiccups toned down to soft whimpers that Thorin’s hands began to move. They slowly trailed up the hobbit’s back and under his armpits, a wordless request to straighten up. Bilbo shakily untangled his fingers from Thorin’s front, obediently following the broad hands’ lead and rising up on wobbly knees to wrap his arms around his suitor’s neck.

Bilbo jerked, then, when Thorin’s hands gently took hold of his pants to tug them up over his bare bottom. His fuzzed mind had forgotten, in midst of it all, that his lower half had been on full display for Thorin’s enhanced dwarven sight to see. With a pained groan, Bilbo buried his face in Thorin’s shoulder, shame carving a hot trail from his cheeks to the back of his neck. The unpleasant burning only worsened when careful hands tucked his nether parts into his pants and secured the lacings at his waist.

“When you feel ready to go back inside, tell me,” Thorin breathed huskily against Bilbo’s temple, arms once more wrapped around his intended. “I will bring food to our room, and tomorrow we’ll stay there until it’s time to collect the beds and leave this wretched town. I’m not leaving your side, ghivashel, I’m never leaving it again.”

Bilbo would have normally puffed up and hissed that he was no child to be handled in such a way, but at that moment, he could only think in terms of ‘yes, yes, it’s perfect, yes, oh Thorin, never again’. Taking deep breaths to will his tears away, he gave a shaky nod.

“C-can we go now? I… I don’t want to stay here,” he muttered, his voice muffled by Thorin’s collar. As much as he would have liked to bask in the dwarf’s familiar scent for the rest of the night, the dark walls of the stables made his heart throb with fear. He wanted away.

“Of course, my heart.”

With a gentleness unbefitting of a dwarven warrior, Thorin rose to his feet, bringing Bilbo’s unsteady form along with him and holding him until his weak legs stopped trembling and walking didn’t seem so impossible a feat.

The trip to their room passed by in a blur, with Thorin half-holding, half-carrying Bilbo along. There were stairs and pipe weed smoke in the air and before long, Thorin pushed a door and pulled the hobbit in, slamming the rickety wooden panel shut to drown out the lively sounds from the main room below.

Fíli and Kíli were, surprisingly, already curled up in bed. Or rather, on the bed, since they were still fully clothed and had only bothered to tug off their boots before collapsing on the sheets. Their hair, fanned out over the white pillows, were a disaster and would require a great deal of combing come morning, but the snoring brothers did not seem to care at the moment. The thought almost pulled a smile out of Bilbo.

“Here,” Thorin whispered as he led Bilbo to one of the two unoccupied beds in the room. “Do you want to eat something? Fruit, perhaps?”

“I’m not hungry,” Bilbo said quietly, first because he didn’t want to wake Fíli and Kíli but also because he didn’t trust his voice. “I… I just want to sleep.”

“As you wish.” Fingers carded through his curls as hot, soft lips brushed the ghost of a tentative kiss on his forehead. “I will leave you to your rest, then. I am a heartbeat away. If you need anything, call and I will see it done.”

With those words, Thorin was gone, his touch leaving Bilbo’s skin only to be replaced by some sort of strange emptiness. Mechanically, the hobbit shrugged off his wet waistcoat and curled up on the bed, facing the wall and burrowing his head in a pillow that smelt faintly of mold. Somehow, his ears registered the sound of a key being turned in a lock, and he felt some tension leave his shoulders at the knowledge that Thorin had bolted the door, secluding the four of them in the safety of the small – though man-sized – room.

A shuffling of cloth, accompanied by twin tell-tale thuds of heavy boots hitting the floor, and the last bed in the room creaked as it welcomed its occupant for the night. Even with his eyes closed, Bilbo could picture Thorin’s bedtime routine clearly, for he had witnessed it on quite a few occasions. First the dwarf shed his boots and the layers of clothing he had decided to abandon for the night; then he plopped down on the spot that would be his for the night – a bed, a bedroll, or even hard ground – and found a nice place for Orcrist to rest, preferably propped up against something and always within reaching range.

Bilbo let himself be lulled into blessed sleep by the familiar, comforting routine of Thorin getting ready for the night across the room. He fiercely fended off any dark thought about the less than savory outcome this evening might have known, were it not for the dwarf, and forced his worn-out mind to take some rest.

Thankfully, he met no resistance.

 

* * *

 

 

A particularly loud roll of thunder had Bilbo sitting straight up in the dead of night, breaths coming out in short gasps and cold sweat trickling down his back in fat drops.

He had not been dreaming, not really. Not with pictures or sounds, at any rate, but he had felt the nightmare gnawing at his insides, snaking its way into his ribcage to bite at his heart. He had felt the dirty hands racking up and down his body, groping, kneading his hips, forcing his pants down, and though he was quite sure there had been no noise at all his throat felt raw from screaming.

He remembered a foul breath, wet with ale, and above everything he remembered begging for it all to stop, stop, please, _I can’t-_

Bilbo buried his face in his sweaty palms, grabbing fistfuls of damp hair in frustration. It had not happened. Why, then? Why was he replaying the night’s events in his head when it had _not_ happened? Where was the Took now, cowering behind a snivelling Baggins perhaps?

Bilbo needed strength. He needed to snap out of this trance-like state where every thought, every waking and dreaming moment revolved around his assaulters. He needed somewhere he could feel safe and sheltered, if only for the sake of a good night’s rest to recover his bearings.

Above all else, Bilbo needed Thorin.

Throwing dwarven etiquette and courting steps to the winds, Bilbo swung his overgrown feet over the edge of his creaking bed and gave the room a sweeping glance. It was too dark to see anything more than uncertain shapes, with the complete absence of moonlight, but the light from a few tormented torches in the street passing through the small window allowed for some level of visibility once in a while.

Even in the dark, there was no mistaking the shapeless lump of two dwarven brothers spread out on a mattress, limbs hanging off and across one another. Their snores could have given the rolls of thunder outside a run for their money as well.

Standing up on his feet – and ignoring the little popping sounds down his back as he did so – Bilbo carefully padded over to the third bed in the room where he knew a King and his wonderful, comforting arms rested.

By all accounts, Bilbo should not wake the dwarf. Thorin’s snores were more discreet than his nephews’, more like low and deep distorted purrs, which meant that even in sleep his guard was still up. It wouldn’t be surprising to find Thorin had a dagger nestled into his palm even as he slumbered, ready to slash at any intruder who had the gall to wake him.

An intruder, Bilbo felt much like one. But he desperately needed to convince his mind that he was safe, that this was real, and who better to turn to than his heart’s true love?

When he was within reaching range of Thorin’s bed, but still far enough should the startled dwarf take a swipe, Bilbo stopped. “Thorin,” he called out weakly, twin claws of apprehension and hesitation digging at his resolve. “Thorin,” he tried again, a little louder with a hand outstretched to gently tug at the sheets.

Instantly, his suitor sprang awake with a jolt, his sudden movement pulling a mournful creak from the bedframe under his heavy body. “Bilbo?” he rasped, speech slurred by sleep but a touch worried. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, no. I mean… well, I couldn’t sleep, and… I was wondering…” Bilbo fervently hoped Thorin’s eyes were still too veiled with slumber to see him nervously fidgeting with the hem of his shirt like a tween on his first summer party without a chaperone. “Could I… sleep with you? Please?”

The bed gave another crack as Thorin shifted his weight, probably searching the darkness for Bilbo’s face. “You want to lay with me? Here? With my nephews in the room?”

Oh, that dense dwarf.

“I just wanted to be near you,” the hobbit muttered sheepishly. “I would feel safer, sleeping next to you. W-we don’t have to touch, if that bothers you, I can sleep with my back to-”

“Do not be stupid.” A broad hand grasped Bilbo’s wrist, tugging him down gently until he was sitting on a dwarf-warmed mattress.

Bilbo wasted no time in climbing up to the head of the bed, guided by Thorin’s hand, until his cheek met hard muscle and his nose was buried into soft fur. With a sigh of relief, he curled his smaller body into Thorin’s side and enjoyed the delicious comfort of a thick arm wrapping itself around his shoulders to anchor him to the unwavering reality that was Thorin Oakenshield.

“Better?” came the quiet question, little more than a hot puff amidst Bilbo’s curls.

“Much, much better,” the hobbit hummed, throwing an arm of his own around his dwarf’s sturdy frame and revelling in the feeling of weathered skin under his fingertips. For a few moments he was content just painting long stripes down Thorin’s stomach, from his chest pelt to the sheet coming up to his navel. Bilbo had half a mind to crawl under the white fabric himself and plaster his body along Thorin’s, but the night was warm and he was certain that he would melt should he spend the night glued to a dwarven furnace.

“Were you having a nightmare?” Thorin asked, his hand drawing shapeless symbols on Bilbo’s clothed back.

“Not something as tangible as that, but I guess I was,” Bilbo breathed into the crook of Thorin’s shoulder. “It felt like I was… suffocating, for some reason.”

“I experienced the same thing a little earlier.” When Bilbo looked up to where he thought Thorin’s eyes were, he felt the dwarf shift nervously against him. “I stepped out of the inn tonight, looking for you. I wanted to make amends. When I heard you scream, in the stables… it felt like my very soul was being ripped from me.” The arm around Bilbo’s body tightened protectively. “I still have not managed to bring it back completely.”

A wave of blooming warmth came crashing over Bilbo, the flames of his love for the dwarven King fuelled to the point he feared his heart might catch fire. Regardless of how ridiculous it seemed, he gave in to his urge to comfort Thorin as though he had been the one being assaulted that night.

“I’m here now, I’m safe,” he whispered endearingly, one hand trailing up to massage Thorin’s scalp in what he hoped what a soothing manner. “Thanks to you. All those men did was give me a fierce fright, nothing more. It could have been much worse.”

“I would have killed them,” Thorin growled darkly even as he rested his cheek on Bilbo’s head to enjoy the feeling of a small hand running through his tresses. “I _should_ have killed them on the spot, smashed their empty skulls against the ground and flayed them open for the whole town to see.”

Bilbo unconsciously shivered; while the three men’s fate was not one of his biggest concerns, the cruel edge to his suitor’s voice was unsettling. “You punished them well enough,” he offered quietly, his gentle heart unable to bear the thought of Thorin up to his elbows in blood, even for his sake.

“This was nothing. Were we in Erebor, I would have that scum shaved bare, castrated and depending on the degree of damage done, I would have them beheaded. Rape,” and Thorin spat the word as though a warg had just taken a piss in his mouth, “especially when it is carried out on females, is one of the most heinous crimes you can commit in a dwarven community.”

Never had Bilbo heard Thorin sound so disgusted before, but he could not say he was surprised. Dwarrowdams were precious to the Children of Mahal, more so even than mithril. To assault one of them in such a way was bound to bring the wrath of all seven kingdoms on the culprit.

To his own bewilderment, he even found the punishments fitting, and just. A dwarf’s standpoint more than a hobbit’s, but Bilbo was comfortable with the idea. He was, after all, ultimately going to live in a mountain with thousands of the bearded fellows, it would do well to get used to at least some of their ways, brutal as they were.

“I understand,” he said softly, scratching gently at the coarse hair on Thorin’s chin. “I cannot say that I would encourage such savagery, but I understand why you would do it.”

“Then I suppose you will forgive me for breaking that man’s fingers, even though you once forbade me from doing so.”

“I _knew_ it! I knew you broke some of his bones.” Bilbo tugged lightly at the dark beard, chuckling when a muffled grunt spilled from Thorin’s lips. “Do you know, I don’t care at all. With each passing day, you are blurring the line between what is proper and what is not. You, my King, are going to make a dwarf out of me some of these days.”

“We would have to work on your crafting skills first, I am afraid baking cannot be considered a valid ability.” Thorin’s laugh rumbled low in his throat when Bilbo gave an offended huff. “Sleep, ghivashel. I believe it is why you sought me out in the first place.”

A yawn escaped Bilbo’s mouth, as if to back up Thorin’s words, and he nodded. “Sweet dreams, beloved.”

If Thorin offered some ‘good night’ of his own, Bilbo never knew, for as soon as his cheek came back down on his dwarf’s stout chest, his mind shut off for a few hours of well-deserved rest.

 

* * *

 

 

When consciousness slowly began creeping back in Bilbo’s sleep-addled brain, it was to a ray of sunlight filtering through the window and casting a stripe of golden light directly into the hobbit’s waking eyes.

With a pained groan, Bilbo rolled over on his stomach and buried his head in his arms to flee the offending Sun. Snuggling into the mattress, he attempted to doze off again, but the sounds rising from the street below made this an impossible feat. Between traders boasting about their wares’ qualities and noisy carts being moved about, Bilbo was surprised he hadn’t been awoken sooner.

Bleary-eyed and still unsure as to whether or not he wished for this day to start, he raised his head and slowly looked around.

The first thing he noted, in spite of his drowsy state, was the state of Fíli and Kíli’s bed. Not that there was anything unusual about the bed itself, no, it was a fairly good man-sized bed, with sturdy posts and clean linens.

Its only problem was that it was empty of dwarves.

Struggling up on his elbows, Bilbo felt worry creeping in on the edges of his blurred world. However, with his new position, a flash of white by the bed caught his eye and he looked down to see a small stool on top of which sat a piece of parchment. Frowning, he leaned in to realize that there were words written on the paper; it took him a few seconds to recognize Fíli’s elegant handwriting, and even longer to decipher the sentence scribbled there.

_Off to the Crafting Halls, meet you there at noon!_

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief. At least the scoundrels had some brains about them.

He flopped back down on the bed, rolling onto his back to fiddle with the small note. Of course the boys would want to see more of what the town had to offer, all crafts alike, but based on the crudely-drawn battle axe splitting an orc in two in a corner of the note – courtesy of Kíli, no mistake – it was safe to say weapons were the brothers’ main interest.

Bilbo chuckled and stared at the piece of paper sleepily, at ease now that he knew of the young dwarves’ whereabouts. Out of habit or for lack of a better thing to do, he turned the note over, only to discover that there were more words scrawled on the back. Kíli’s rough handwriting gave him away as certainly as the sly inked message.

**_We locked the door and left you the key. You two have fun!_ **

The shireling groaned and flung the note away, glad at least that there had been no drawing this time to embellish the already quite obvious gibe.

One look to his right, though, and all traces of annoyance fled from his mind as his lips stretched for a warm, lazy smile.

Thorin was laid out on his stomach, the claws of sleep still deeply imbedded in his mind. With his arms disappearing under his pillow, it looked like he was giving the fluffy thing a fierce hug, his whole face burrowed into the softness of the white fabric. How he still managed to breathe and snore, Bilbo had to wonder.

With the thickness of sleep still resting over him, the hobbit rolled onto his side to watch the dwarven King slumbering across the man-sized bed. Even in sleep, Thorin’s whole body looked ready to pounce, his skin stretched thin over bulging muscles and taut cords showing under his arms and around his neck. But if one were to look closer, something Bilbo was unashamedly wallowing in at the moment, one would have noted the peaceful rise and fall of a ribcage and the relaxed brow that was so often marred by tormented creases.

A dozing Thorin Oakenshield was a lovely sight, one that made for a pleasant morning.

Cautiously, Bilbo scooted closer until he could feel tendrils of dark hair tickle his nose. With a grimace directed at the turn these events could take if he startled the sleeping dwarf, before he let his hand rest on Thorin’s lower back.

His touch was met with an alteration of snoring patterns and a soft grunt, but Thorin didn’t wake. Slowly, tentatively, Bilbo pushed his luck and began to trail his fingers up the curved slope of a sturdy back, sliding them back down when he reached the mass of hair cascading down Thorin’s shoulders. When that failed to elicit more than a heavy sigh, Bilbo chuckled and set to massaging the small of his suitor’s back.

They had been courting for quite some time, now. Certainly, he was allowed to play a tad.

At some point, Thorin shifted and brought one leg further up. And surely, some shameless divinity must have been at work this morning, for the blanket slid down, not to reveal the waistband of pants as Bilbo expected, but to uncover more and more bare skin.

Of all the nights to sleep in the nude, Thorin had chosen that one.

Sparing a moment to curse the endless curiosity of Hobbits, Bilbo drank in the sight of the newly-bared patches of pale skin. His fingers had stilled on Thorin’s back, atop a ragged scar near the base of his spine, as he didn’t trust them not to trail south to unknown territories just yet. Of course he would have shed his pants; they had been wet and muddy after kneeling on the ground for so long. But he could at least have given Bilbo a fair warning the night before.

Not that this was an unpleasant surprise, mind you.

Swallowing his doubts, Bilbo set his hand in motion again. The tips of his fingers skimmed down, hardly grazing skin really, until they came in contact with a delightfully soft rump and remained there.

The thick muscle beneath his palm jumped a bit and Bilbo cast a worried look upward. But Thorin was still fast asleep, unaware of the attention the lower half of his body was receiving at the moment.

A flash of guilt tore at Bilbo’s heart, as he reflected that he felt more like a burglar now than he had while perusing Erebor’s great treasury for the Arkenstone. They may have been courting for a considerable while now, and Bilbo may be craving to touch Thorin’s solid, _real_ body, but he had no right to take what was not willingly given. Just thinking about it brought him back to the stables, and the feeling of unwanted hands on his skin…

Fighting the bile that threatened to scorch his throat as the memories surfaced, Bilbo shook his head and steeled his resolve. He would not let those men turn him into a sobbing mess, he was strong enough to move on.

Starting that very morning.

 

* * *

 

 

Were Thorin to count off the many different ways he had been woken up in the course of his long life, he would need more than his personal set of fingers.

He had awoken to shakes, yells, battle cries and wolf howls. Those had been most common before he had settled into the Blue Mountains. Then the task of startling him awake had fallen to his young boisterous nephews, either crawling under the blankets with him to cry off a nightmare or jumping on his bed to beg him to take them to the forge. Occasionally, Dís would help her sons rouse the older dwarf in the morning, and more often than not it had entailed a bucket of cold water being dumped unceremoniously on his head.

This, however… this was new. For all Thorin had woken up to countless things, tender kisses being pressed down the back of his neck were not one of them.

There was a small pressure on his back where he could only guess a certain hobbit was resting his weight, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of Thorin and his hands tracing soft patterns along rough skin. The King’s initial instinct was to recoil, to shy away from the gentle ministrations especially since he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.

But he felt far too sluggish, and Bilbo’s loving touch was too pleasurable to push away.

Fighting the urge to simply roll over and let the halfling do as he wished with his drowsy body, Thorin kept still, reining in both his nervousness at his intended’s advances and his need to pounce on the smaller body to ravish it.

Those delicate hands were leaving a trail of flames in their wake, soft as they were. It burned right down Thorin’s spine to gather in his loins, setting a slow burning fire in his belly. By all accounts he should turn his head and tell Bilbo to stop at once, but he couldn’t bring himself to chase away the wonderful warmth his heart was wallowing in with each caress on his rough skin.

While he held his forefathers’ traditions in high regards, Thorin could not help but wish courting in the manner of the sons of Durin wasn’t such a tedious business. Of course, he wanted to show he could earn Bilbo’s love, that he could be worthy of one day being called his spouse, and in order to do so he was willing to work for it. But at times such as these, in the blurred gap between dreams and consciousness, Thorin was hard-pressed to push his intended’s affections away and had to struggle not to simply roll over and give Bilbo unbidden access to his body, to do with as he pleased.

As long as the hands stayed on his back and shoulders, Thorin was able to remain quiet and still, only allowing shivers to glide down his spine in the most delicious way. The contact was light and warm, casting a blanket of loving care over his sleepy body.

When the fingers travelled up to tangle in his mane of hair and massage his scalp, however, pleasure swiftly overcame Thorin’s better judgement and he released a breathy moan, rolling his hips firmly into the mattress beneath his body.

Thorin froze, his brain finally jumping to full consciousness and coming up with various curses at his careless actions. Thankfully, the pillow was hiding most of his face, which meant Bilbo would be spared the sight of the light flush creeping up the dwarf’s neck as shame engulfed him in a hot cocoon of disapproval.

The soft hands buried in his hair stilled, but soon enough to his bewilderment they resumed their motions, rubbing at the back of Thorin’s head leisurely.

“And so he wakes,” Bilbo chuckled, his voice little more than a purr and it sent new tingles of arousal sparking in Thorin’s belly. “Good morning, dearest.”

“It seems to be so far.” On the pillow, the King twisted his head in an effort to chance a glance at his intended. “May I ask what you are doing up there?”

“Well, the view, for one, is quite nice.” One set of blunt nails raked a path down Thorin’s left shoulder blade, the muscles there twitching slightly and pulling another chuckle from the hobbit. “As for the rest, am I not allowed to touch my future husband’s body, even when we are alone in a locked room?”

Alone? Thorin had completely forgotten about his nephews’ presence, what with Bilbo’s hands so skilled at wreaking havoc in his thoughts, but yes by all means they ought to be here too. Where had they gone off to?

“Before you ask, Fíli and Kíli wanted another look at the Crafting Hall this morning. They left while we were still sleeping.”

Thorin nodded, some tension easing from his frame at the knowledge of his nephews’ whereabouts. Those boys had never been able to sit – or lie – still for long, always jumping at the first opportunity to explore the world around them. They were so much like Frerin in that aspect…

All thoughts of his departed nephews and deceased brother fled his mind when Bilbo began scratching at the skin behind his ears. Thorin’s head fell back heavily on his plump pillow, his jaws snapping shut painfully with a clatter of teeth but not before a fevered moan barrelled through them.

Was there any way in the world Bilbo understood how sinfully _good_ this felt?

The hobbit must have had a fair idea, for his pace became impossibly slow and the most mischievous snicker escaped him.

“Lovely,” he stated simply, one finger wriggling away from the mass of silver-streaked hair to follow the curve of Thorin’s round ear.

Bilbo’s weight shifted on the dwarf’s back as he went back to pressing gentle yet firm kisses up Thorin’s spine and along his shoulders. On his way up he would pepper the skin with tiny puckers, nuzzling into dark strands when he finally reached Thorin’s nape; on his way down, his kisses were more daring, stronger and their pressure combined with Bilbo’s hands steadily kneading his scalp had the King’s discernment squashed into jelly within moments. He found himself lifting his upper body to meet his intended’s mouth more often than he cared to admit.

He did not even realize he was rutting against the mattress before the bed gave a high-pitched creak.

Trying to retain some amount of dignity and not act like a young dwarf in heat, Thorin stilled his hips. But Bilbo’s lips clamping down on his ear had him shallowly thrusting once more, his hands clawing at the underside of his pillow.

“Bilbo,” Thorin growled warningly, for there was now a hard, pulsing problem making itself quite uncomfortably known in the narrow space between the bed and his belly.

“There’s no use yapping when you are obviously enjoying yourself,” Bilbo whispered hotly against his ear. “So shut up and let me take care of you, for a change.”

The hobbit’s mouth went quiet as it molded itself to the round shell, wetly mouthing at the outer line and paying special attention to the soft lobe, which he nipped and nibbled on gently.

In the midst of the rush of heated arousal caused by the hobbit currently sprawled all over his back and the devilish teeth sliding along his ear clasp with a soft clinking noise, something registered in Thorin’s passion-addled mind.

 _For a change_.

This was not a spur of the moment thing, fuelled by Bilbo’s easy-going hobbit customs and his need for physical contact. This… this was payback. Payback for the previous night, for their nights on the road, for every time Thorin had ‘taken care’ of Bilbo and now the foolish hobbit wished to compensate.

The flames of arousal were promptly blown out by the winds of outrage and when Thorin felt Bilbo’s small hand trail down his side to ease its way into the hollow between his hip and his thigh, he bucked up.

“Goodness gracious, Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed as he was thrown off balance, landing on the unoccupied portion of the bed with an undignified yelp. “Be careful!”

“You do not have to do this,” Thorin growled, twisting to retrieve the sheet bunched up at his feet and draw it up to his stomach as he rolled over on his back. The pressure on his member was blessedly eased, though he was still achingly hard and straining against the white fabric now trapping him.

Bilbo’s flushed cheeks did nothing to dampen the dwarf’s interest, either.

“I know I don’t have to do this. I _want_ to, and I have been told it is an entirely different matter,” the hobbit huffed.

“The only thing you want is a way to pay me back somehow for protecting you and this is the only thing you came up with,” Thorin hissed, wishing his heart would stop hammering for a moment and that some blood would flow back to his brain where he needed it most. It would help, surely, if Bilbo was not looking so gut-wrenchingly lovely with his short pants, his loose shirt and a muss in his hair that just begged to be played with.

Mahal grant him strength.

“Why do you always have to make things about me?” the dwarf asked.

“This is as much about you as it is about me!” Bilbo blurted out. “Listen, I… after last night, I fell in a bit of a daze. Everything felt surreal, too big, suffocating even. It still does, to some level, so when I woke up and saw you sleeping so peacefully next to me… I needed to know that you were real, that you were _here_ with me, though I’ll admit I got a bit carried away,” Bilbo finished in a mumble.

Thorin stayed silent, staring into the hobbit’s sheepish eyes in thought. His intended was having trouble justifying his actions, and rightly so: there were no words in Westron to express exactly what Bilbo was feeling right now, such vague and meaningless language that it was. However, he could think of several expressions in Khuzdul to describe the shireling’s feelings, and all of them pointed to the same thing.

Bilbo had been subjected to powerlessness, and he wished to clear the memory away by being in control of something.

Thorin’s subconscious reeled at the prospect of lowering his guard, even for a few moments, for it had been decades since he had last allowed anyone to approach him so intimately and even then he had maintained some degree of wariness. But this was Bilbo, his One, and there was little to no chance that he would be harmed should he temporarily relinquish his hold on control in the presence of his hobbit.

Not to mention the pleasant outcomes it might lead to.

Tucking his apprehension in a locked drawer at the back of his mind, Thorin rested his head high on the pillow, shaking it gently so that his fair fanned out on the bed and revealed the entire length of his throat. As far as submission went, there was not much more a humble dwarven King could do.

“Very well, then,” Thorin drawled, his voice casual to conceal the hesitation he could feel creeping up his throat. “You may proceed, if you so wish.”

“… Has anyone told you how much of a charmer you are?” Bilbo snorted, but he did scoot closer until he was lying on his side with one elbow propping himself up and his free hand covering Thorin’s thick chest hair.

“My sister once did, but I believe she was being sarcastic,” the dwarf replied, closing his eyes when Bilbo’s hand wandered down the sturdy plane of his stomach to stroke the thickening line of dark hair spreading around his navel. It was maddening, how such small fingers could set him ablaze with the simplest of touches, coaxing him into lifting his hips to draw out the fleeting caresses.

When Bilbo leaned down to kiss the hollow on Thorin’s neck where jaw met throat, the dwarf groaned, deep rumbles reverberating against Bilbo’s skin and prompting a chuckle from the enthusiastic hobbit. Thorin’s hands itched to embrace, to squeeze, to roll the halfling over and cover his smaller body with his own attention. He kept them firmly in place by his sides, staying true to his unspoken oath to give Bilbo complete control over this. He only allowed his right arm to wrap loosely around his hobbit’s shoulders when Bilbo lied down to rest against him.

The hand on his torso never stayed idle. In turn, it caressed his dark fur, trailed across his collarbone and outlined his abdominal muscles with the indolence that tinged most things Hobbits did, at a pace slow enough to make Thorin’s blood boil with impatience.

Soon enough, however, Bilbo’s fingers found the edge of the sheet covering the lower half of the King’s body. With just the very tips eased under the linen to tease at the dense gathering of hair underneath, the hobbit looked up, searching for a sign of approval.

An outraged voice, sounding much like Balin, was screaming at Thorin’s brain to stop, that it had gone too far, that it was too soon into their courtship for such brazen acts. But Thorin swallowed once and gave a tiny nod, hiding his shameful eagerness as best as he could.

It took every ounce of self-restrain the dwarf possessed not to come immediately from the feeling of cool fingertips pressing against the head of his member.

“Mahal,” Thorin hissed through gritted teeth, pushing his head back into the pillow when Bilbo’s hand came to wrap around his hard length.

“Yavana’s gardens, you’re big,” the hobbit mouthed against Thorin’s straining neck.

At the first few experimental tugs, Thorin forgot just about everything, down to his name or what he was doing in this small room smelling of damp wood and ash. More importantly, he forgot why he had not said yes to this sooner than he had.

As the smaller male’s motions grew more confident, Thorin found it harder to stifle the pleased moans that determinately kept climbing up his throat. Sharply, he turned his head to muffle his groans in the mop of curly golden hair resting on his shoulder as Bilbo gave an approving hum.

As playful and leisurely a pace Bilbo had set before, the fast and focused treatment the hobbit was submitting Thorin’s erection to was a startling, but not entirely unpleasant change. It had the dwarf arching his spine right off the bed, heels digging into the mattress in an uncontrolled effort to get closer, to feel more of that wonderful hand on his heated skin.

When Bilbo’s knee came up and pinned Thorin’s squirming leg to the bed, the King gave a pained whine. Never before had he allowed someone to dominate him so, let alone someone half his weight whom he could easily shrug off his body, and the knowledge was enough to send a spear of fire through his guts.

His release was whipping back and forth in his belly, taunting him, its heat at once familiar and long forgotten. It threatened to engulf him whole with every upward stroke, to spirit him away with every downward slide ending with a teasing touch to his taut sack. He was vaguely aware that words were spilling from his mouth into curled hair, but they were not worthy of attention, unlike Bilbo’s thumb giving his glans a firm swipe.

“Bilbo, Mahal, you can’t – I won’t – I’m going to – anh!”

Thorin twisted around swiftly to clamp his teeth down on the pillow, biting the fabric so tightly that no words or sounds past muffled growls made their way to the outside world. He did not want the entire inn to be privy to their activities.

The stroking increased in speed, if such a thing was possible, as Bilbo raised his mouth from where he had been pressing kisses into Thorin’s neck to whisper heatedly: “I love you, âzyungel.”

The statement, along with the clumsy attempt at Khuzdul, proved to be Thorin’s undoing. With a strangled moan more befitting of a wounded animal than a King of Dwarves, his whole body tensed until it was as hard as the stone Mahal had crafted Durin the First from.

With pleasure turning his veins into rivers of fire from the back of his head to the tip of his toes, Thorin’s restrain snapped and he squeezed Bilbo hard against his chest as he came.

Long had it had been since he had last swum across the ocean of post-coital bliss, and he willingly basked in the afterglow of Bilbo’s frantic ministrations. A contented sigh crossed his lips at the feeling of a soft, beardless mouth on his, gifting him with a chaste kiss. A hand was on his face, brushing back his hair, caressing his beard with a reverence that had deep rumbles of satisfaction echoing in his chest.

When Thorin opened his eyes, it was to find a very amused hobbit looking down at him from his sitting position.

“Well… so much for Dwarves’ legendary stamina,” Bilbo bantered, a smug smirk gracing his smooth features.

Oh, the cheek of that accursed halfling! Joking, at a time like this.

“I usually last longer,” Thorin slurred, unable to come up with anything snarkier than the truth. “But it has been a while since I last… will you stop with that satisfied smile?”

“No,” Bilbo replied, one hand drawing round-shaped patterns down Thorin’s furred belly. “Not when you are sprawled here, looking so thoroughly ravished by my hand, no.”

“You devious creature.” His muscles still singing with orgasmic bliss, Thorin caught Bilbo around the waist and hefted his hobbit until he was straddling his sturdy chest, chuckling at Bilbo’s surprised giggle. “Just give me a moment and see how I reward such crass talk.”

Thorin’s hands trailed down Bilbo’s back to seize his rump, bringing it down as he rolled his hips up and into the cleft between the hobbit’s legs. The bulge in the smaller male’s pants had not escaped his notice.

They would forego courting steps and ritual gifts for the morning. There would be time to get back to it after lunch.

“As much as I am sure that this will be a _short_ moment,” Bilbo teased, even as a lovely blush began painting his cheeks a bright pink at his suitor’s intentions, “I must insist you be quick about it. If this hobbit stomach doesn’t get breakfast soon, it might just begin to hunger for dwarven flesh.”

Thorin coaxed Bilbo’s head down to brush their noses together. Somehow, this brief bout of nuzzling felt more intimate than the explosion of passion they had just shared. “You would have to wait until tomorrow, then. At this hour, you can only hope for an early lunch.”

Bilbo’s mouth froze a hairsbreadth from Thorin’s and, to the King’s consternation, retreated. “What are you talking about?”

Thorin had to blink up at his intended. “Given the position of the Sun and the ambient warmth, I would say that it is less than one hour before noon.”

“Oh bugger!”

Before Thorin could catch him, Bilbo jumped from the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a dull thud. The dwarf could only watch, gobsmacked, as the smaller male began fluttering around the room, rambling all the way. “Apple blossoms, I thought it was earlier! Much, much earlier than that. Where’s my waistcoat? Confound it, I remember leaving it right- oh here it is. Now where have those scoundrels left the key? It’s always the same with you Dwarves, there always has to be a key involved at some point, and _where is it?_ ”

Thorin rolled on his side, wincing when a certain wet mess underneath the sheet was smeared around his groin. It felt tacky and could not be considered the peak of pleasantness, but even so the dwarf was too sluggish to clean himself just yet. He felt more than a little debauched, slouched as he was with his own seed drying on his thighs, but there would be time later to care about that. “Why the rush? The bedframes won’t be ready before noon, if I recall correctly,” the dwarf yawned, languid ropes slowly pulling his mind back to sleep. “Come back to bed, my heart.”

“By the time you’re properly dressed and we’ve had a bite to eat, saddled the ponies and reached Trader’s Gate, it will be well past noon!” Bilbo countered, buttoning up his waistcoat and shielding his enticing collarbone from sight. Thorin mourned the loss more than he normally would. “It wouldn’t do to be rude when the carpenter had the kindness to be so quick.”

“Your carpenter never specified a time for us to come, he only said it would be done by noon,” Thorin pointed out, shifting until he was lying on his stomach once more, the bulk of his softening cock no longer painful as it was trapped between skin and fabric. Anyone in charge of the laundry that day would have a surprise. “We could still show up at dusk and it could not be legitimately considered ‘rude’. If you want to speak about impoliteness, let us talk about the prices that man applies to his wares.”

“Yes, yes, I know your point of view concerning this matter,” Bilbo said with an exasperated wave of the hand. “If you don’t mind, I will do the talking, and you can- aha! Key!” The hobbit swooped down low to snatch the item he had been searching for. “They must have slipped it under the door, those scamps. Alright, I’m fetching us a bite to eat, I won’t be long so don’t fall asleep.”

“Mhm.”

Thorin closed his eyes as Bilbo’s footsteps neared the door, but the sound of a key sliding into a lock never came. “Thorin?”

“What is it, ghivashel?” the dwarf mumbled, his thoughts half scrambled by drowsiness and ready to disobey Bilbo’s warning.

“You don’t mind if I lock the door while I’m away? I… I wouldn’t want anyone to walk in on you when you are… well, naked.”

Maybe this was as close to possessiveness as Bilbo would ever get. Whether the hobbit truly wished to protect Thorin’s modesty or more troublesome preoccupations were afoot, it had a bubble of genuine laughter spilling from the dwarf’s mouth. “And here I had hoped I could lure innocent maids into bed with me, as I am apparently wont to do every time I spend the night here,” he sighed dramatically.

His cheek earned him a pair of pants thrown to the face.

“Laugh all you want, silly old dwarf, but you had better be dressed when I come back.”

“I live to serve.” This time the key was audibly inserted in the rusted lock and turned, but before his hobbit could step out, Thorin spoke up. “Bilbo?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you as well, more so than you would think.”

Those words he had never uttered, had never directed them at anyone other than his family. Yet they rolled off his tongue as easily as any ‘good morning’ would, and the bright smile that lit Bilbo’s face was a reward of its own.

“I will be right back,” the hobbit promised giddily, pulling the door shut with a soft click.

Feeling his lips stretch in a grin wide enough to split his face open, Thorin cast his dark pants aside and flopped back down on the bed, boneless, enjoying the stripes of sunlight painting warm paths down his back. It was all he could do not to curl up and purr as he unashamedly replayed the morning’s happenings with the satisfaction of a well-fed cat dozing off under the mid-afternoon Sun.

As he settled down for a sated nap, Thorin idly wondered how big a fit Bilbo would throw when he came back to find him asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update should take a bit longer, I have to travel to the other side of France for a wedding and I don't know if my old car will make it! Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter :)
> 
> *idly considers bringing a notebook to work on chap 18 on the highway while waiting for the mechanic*


	19. Hide and Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life: *holds Chap 18 out of reach* is that what you're looking for?   
> Me: so sick of your crap, life...

 

“Kids, we’re home!” Bilbo shouted enthusiastically as he pushed the gate to Bag End open with a flourish. “Come and give us a kiss!”

This earned him disgusted grimaces from the young dwarves trailing behind him, and amused chuckles from their uncle. “I’m not sure I want a kiss from Dwalin, or any other of our companions for that matter,” Kíli winced.

“After the trick you played on them the night before we left, trust me, none of them will want to give you a kiss,” Fíli teased, hiding behind his pony’s thick neck to avoid the kick aimed at his shins.

“Well, kiss or no, we still need their help to unload the bedframes and bring them inside,” Bilbo shrugged, immediately flinching when the movement woke the dull aches in his shoulders that came from hours of walking with a rucksack on his back and reins in his hand.

He couldn’t even imagine how weary the ponies were, as well. For all they had the sturdy backs of Erebor’s finest steeds, the poor animals had borne the weight of two bedframes – minus Snowball who, due to his youth and lighter build, had only carried one – from Bree with more than one exhausted neigh. The structures, while not as massive and heavy as the Furniture Under the Mountain, were still made of solid oak and proved to be a strain on the faithful ponies’ backs.

Not to mention that the trip back to Hobbiton had taken twice as long as when they had first made their way to Bree. They did not push their mounts to walk faster, nor did they ride them of course, and had enjoyed the luxury of a few hours of sleep when the Sun disappeared behind the Weather Hills.

Coming back from Bree had taken a little over two days, the delicious smells of cookies being pulled out of the oven for tea time accompanying the small group’s steps as they finally made their way up Bagshot Row.

Bilbo hastily tied Snowball to the fence and turned to his dwarven escort. “If you’re not too tired, could you please at least unload the bedframes? I fear our Plum’s eyes are going to pop out,” the hobbit asked, one hand reaching out to give Kíli’s pony a compassionate pat on the nose. “I’ll fetch the others.”

Half-hearted grunts met his demand, but the dwarves heeded his words and set to work.

Bilbo smiled and stepped around Snowball toward the smial that, miraculously, had not been set on fire by four unsupervised children of Mahal in three days’ time. He passed by Thorin’s mount and almost squeaked when he was tugged out of sight behind the bulk of the black beast, only to have a sneaky King gently brushing his nose against his in a rare display of semi-public affection.

Bilbo couldn’t exactly pinpoint when, but in the course of the last two days Thorin had become more demonstrative in his attentions. Sometimes, when they had strayed off road for a bit of a break, Thorin had pulled him behind a thick patch of bushes for a few stolen kisses and Bilbo had revelled in the wandering hands tracing patterns from his nape to the small of his back until it was time to take off again.

A Tookish voice inside his mind teased that he was responsible for the dwarf’s behavior, and could Bilbo really deny it? He had been the one taking that big step in their intimacy, the one to whisper his love in Thorin’s ear as he caressed one of the most personal parts of his suitor’s body. He had been delighted to see both gambling acts answered with willingness, just as he was happy to bear Thorin’s affection – or at least what the dwarf felt comfortable showing – in bright daylight.

“What a brazen King you make, dearest,” Bilbo smiled when Thorin’s wiry beard tickled his nose. “One would almost mistake you for a lovesick tween, you know.”

“One would almost be right,” the dwarf rumbled low, carding his fingers through Bilbo’s sun-kissed curls.

With an amused snort, the hobbit gently pulled back, which earned him a disapproving noise from Thorin. “Later,” he promised softly, standing up on his toes to place a kiss on his suitor’s large nose and erase the slight wrinkle there. “For now, I need those beds in their rightful places and those four ponies fed.”

“Aye,” Thorin nodded, a small smile tugging at his whiskery lips.

Feeling the dwarf’s eyes on his back the whole way, Bilbo sauntered up the few steps leading to Bag End’s round door and pushed.

The halls were… quiet. Quite suspiciously so, to be honest, and it had worry gnawing at Bilbo’s judgement within seconds. He had expected everything from Bofur juggling with plates to Glóin starting a fire in the middle of the dining room, but this deafening silence was even more unsettling than the predicaments he had dreamt he would find his home of fifty years in.

Bilbo frowned. Were they sleeping? No, no they weren’t; if that were the case, he would hear Bombur’s earth-shattering snores and his ears could not pick up on the smallest noise no matter how hard he strained them. Gone for a walk, perhaps? That was the most sensible guess, and Bilbo made a mental note to remind his dear companions that if they left without locking the door, all manner of vermin – namely, the Sackville-Bagginses – would find their way inside.

The shireling was about to turn back and announce to his three weary dwarves that they would have to move the heavy bedframes on their own when the blessed sound of heavy boots hitting the floor echoed in the parlor.

“Good gracious, I was beginning to worry,” Bilbo thought out loud as he followed the noise.

The sight of a dwarven behind raised in mid-air, however, brought a startled chortle out of him.

At the strangled sound, Dwalin almost slipped from where he had been leaning down to peer up the chimney. The warrior cursed as he scrambled to his feet, bumping his head on the mantelpiece and shooting Bilbo a dark look. “Don’t sneak up on me, lad! Are you tryin’ to kill me?”

“Not under my own roof, no I am not. And I’m not sneaking up on anyone, you were simply too busy… doing what exactly?” Bilbo inquired, crossing his weary arms over his chest. “Checking for orcs hiding up the chimney?”

“None of yer business,” Dwalin growled lowly, massaging his forehead where a bruise would have bloomed on a frailer being from the spectacular hit.

Fatigue had considerably dampened Bilbo’s patience, and the hobbit was about to express exactly how rude it was to dismiss someone who was providing shelter and food. But the dwarf turned away and exited the parlor, one hand cradling his abused head as it turned left and right in search of something Bilbo couldn’t fathom.

The bewildered son of Bungo Baggins was left to blink in the deserted room, staring where the warrior’s bulk had disappeared with certainly as much grace as a gaping troll. What had gotten into Dwalin?

Before he could go after the tattooed dwarf and ask as much, clinking noises in the kitchen had Bilbo’s ears perking up again. Sparing one last glance to the entrance hall where Dwalin had stamped off, the shireling made a mental note to scold the Captain later and turned on his weary heels to wander into his beloved kitchen.

How on Arda the small wooden table in the middle of the room managed to hold the tremendous amount of golden, heavenly-smelling pies, Bilbo didn’t know, yet he had to concede that it did so admirably. His old apron was holding its own as well, stretched to its limit around Bombur’s generous belly as the rotund dwarf hopped about the kitchen with a spoon in one hand and a rag in the other.

“Ah, Bilbo, in the nick o’ time!” Bombur exclaimed when he realized he had gained an audience. “Tell me, will those be enough?”

Bilbo’s gaze shifted between the red-haired dwarf and the army of crusty goods. Enough for what? Tea with all of Hobbiton? Well, they _would_ be a slice or two short…

“I-it’s lovely Bombur,” Bilbo blurted out after a few seconds of pending silence. “A very nice attention. But don’t you think you went a bit… overboard?” True, there were seven dwarves in this household, three of which were probably half-starved from their recent trip, but even Bilbo’s own growling stomach could not deny that it was a bit much for dinner.

Yet it was Bombur’s turn to look confused. “Overboard? I thought Hobbits had large appetites.”

“So do Dwarves, as I am quite reliably told, but still… Bombur, there are only eight of us, a-and hundreds of pies!” Alright, so maybe that was pushing it and there was only a little over twenty pies crowding the table. But still…

“Eight of u- Oh! Nobody told you yet!” The cook cleaned his hands on Bilbo’s abused apron and gave the hobbit a smile even wider than the one he had shown upon reaching Beorn’s home on their first journey across Middle-Earth after days of starvation. “We are invited to a wedding!”

Tiny spikes of surprise and alarm poked at Bilbo’s tired mind, prompting him to raise his eyebrows. “A wed- a wedding? Who?” was the first question of many that sprang to Bilbo’s lips.

“Some Took cousin of yours, I reckon. Didn’t quite catch his name, or his future wife’s for that matter,” Bombur shrugged, bending a bit to peer into the oven and, Yavanna, another batch of pies? Was there a single bag of flour left in Hobbiton at all? “They dropped by this mornin’ with Master Gamgee and invitations. Said they were sorry for the last minute thing, but they didn’t know if Dwarves liked this sort o’ celebration. Can you imagine?”

“Most Hobbits spend their whole lives without ever speaking to a dwarf, Bombur,” Bilbo reasoned. _Although one glance at your belly should have been enough to convince the Shire that yes, Dwarves like a good feast,_ he almost added, his eyes unconsciously drifting down to the faded green fabric stretched taut over Bombur’s stomach. “You cannot blame them for this.”

“Aye, well, as you can guess we said yes, all of us. We promised you would attend too, if you were back in time.”

The prospect of a good summer wedding, with hearty food and golden ale to accompany a night of merry dancing held a great appeal, indeed. As long as his dwarven companions behaved, Bilbo would not turn down a bit of partying if only for old time’s sake.

“I would be delighted,” he nodded, a small tired smile pulling at his lips. “After a bit of rest and some grooming, of course, the trip from Bree has me down on my knees. A stop by the tailor’s stall tomorrow would not be amiss, too, I have no suitable waistcoat left to speak of.”

Although most of Bilbo’s furniture had been shepherded back to Bag End, several smaller items such as decent clothes had yet to reappear.

His last comment earned him one raised ginger eyebrow. “M’afraid you’ll have to either hurry up or do without. Wedding’s to take place tonight at sunset.”

“T-tonight?” Bilbo most definitely didn’t squeak.

“Told you this was a bit of a last minute thing.”

“I know, I know, still you could have been more precise as to-”

“There ye are, ye rascal!”

The sudden roar took Bilbo by surprise; but when he turned around to see Dwalin stomping his way into the kitchen with the determination and loudness of a bull, he just about felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. How many Orcs had felt the exact same fear as the war-hardened dwarf threw himself in their way in the middle of a battlefield?

The feeling lasted for the better part of a second before Bilbo remembered where they were – definitely not on some battlefield, regardless of the state of his kitchen – and frowned. “You already saw me earlier, have you forgotten? Or maybe you were too busy being rude to notice-”

But the warrior paid his biting comment no mind and, instead, dove under the kitchen table with a grace unbefitting of his size. When Dwalin stood up again, he was pulling a giggling fauntling from his pie-covered hiding spot.

“Hidin’ in the kitchen, eh? How very fittin’ of yer kind, little hobbit scoundrel,” Dwalin rasped affectionately.

“Mister Dwalin, stop, stop!” Frodo squealed, twisting to escape the broad hands tickling his sides. Around his laughing mouth, the dark smudges gave away that he had played some part in the making of Bombur’s blueberry pies. Or their undoing. “Please!”

“And ye’ve been seekin’ help from our esteemed cook!” At this point Dwalin’s attention shifted to the ginger-headed dwarf busy trying to pull on cooking gloves that were clearly undersized. “How long have ye been hidin’ him, ye wretched swine?”

“Language!” Bombur hissed, tugging the oven door open to retrieve a whole new set of sweet-smelling goodness. “I’ve not been hiding him, Mister Frodo here is perfectly able t’find a suitable hiding spot on his own. Unlike someone I know…”

The growl that escaped Dwalin’s mouth didn’t quite match the careful movements that helped Frodo settle against his burly chest. “We’ve been over this. It was acceptable.”

“It was cheating!” Frodo suddenly quipped, pushing against Dwalin’s iron chest with both hands to give the dwarf a stern look. “We said ‘no hiding outside’ and you were outside. That’s cheating.”

“Technically, I was not-”

“Uncle Bilbo’s shed is outside.”

“Is there _anyone_ in here not too busy breathing to come and give us a hand?” came Kíli’s strained voice from the entrance hall. “Uncle Thorin is carrying the bedframes by himself. He’s all red in the face and about to collapse.”

“I am not,” Thorin’s gruff voice countered from further away, but through the roughness Bilbo easily detected concealed tendrils of exhaustion.

Guilt crept around the edges of his mind as the fidgety hobbit made his way back to Bag End’s door. He would be lying, of course, if he said he had fully expected Thorin and his nephews to stand idle as he went to fetch help. But for them to go as far as carrying the beds inside on their own, in their worn-out state… A plague on the stubbornness of Dwarves.

And a particular plague on the neck of that stubborn race’s King, struggling to get one heavy bedframe through the round door on his own even though the veins on his forehead looked just about ready to pop out.

“Goodness gracious, Thorin, could you not wait for a few minutes more?” Bilbo sighed, inching closer to lend a hand even if he knew he would be no great help.

“The sooner those frames are carried to their rightful places, the sooner we can rest for the remainder of the day,” came the rasped reply, issued through gritted teeth as the weight of the wooden device pushed down heavily on Thorin’s bent back. He looked more like a mule than a dwarf, that foolish King. “A nap certainly sounds very appealing at the moment.”

Bilbo nibbled on his lower lip to keep from mentioning the wedding; as rude as it was to ignore such an event, he would not force any of his dwarves to go to the party. Especially not Thorin and his nephews, exhausted males that they were.

Thankfully, Dwalin had followed Bilbo out of the kitchen, Frodo still cradled to his chest. After one grunt of acknowledgment, the dwarf deposited the young hobbit on the floor and walked over to his King to take the bedframe from his hands. “Lemme take up from here,” Dwalin said, cutting off any sound of protest.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin only offered a vague gesture and obediently walked into the parlor, bestowing a gentle pat on Frodo’s dark curls when he passed by the fauntling. The youngest Baggins answered with a smile and quietly sauntered off after the dwarf.

“Will you need my help?” Bilbo politely asked Dwalin. He knew the answer, of course, but it was common courtesy to at least offer assistance under his own roof.

As expected, the warrior merely shook his head and carried his burden out of the entrance hall. Bilbo could only guess he was heading to what the company used as a guest room. At the back of his mind, it registered briefly that the small room would not hold all of the seven bedframes and they probably would have to clear another room and split the company. But he abandoned such thoughts in favor of a tall glass of apple juice that he would doubtlessly find in the pantry.

In the parlor, Thorin had wasted no time in collapsing in the armchair near the cold fireplace. His boots, forgotten, laid on their sides across the room where the King must have tugged them off. With practiced ease, Bilbo picked the dwarven contraptions up and neatly deposited them next to the hearth. For some unknown reason, it sent warm tingles down his belly, to see his intended barefoot in his family smial.

“I was about to take care of this,” Thorin mumbled, half-lidded eyes following Bilbo’s movements.

“I am sure you were,” the hobbit chuckled, reaching down to tuck a stray lock of black hair behind a round ear. The soft noise of appreciation that escaped Thorin’s lips when his soft shell was grazed brought a fond smile to Bilbo’s lips. He would be loathe to break the peaceful atmosphere by bringing up the wedding they were supposed to attend, and thus decided to draw out the moment. “Would you care for some late tea? I spotted some jam earlier.”

“That would be very nice, thank you,” came the baritone purr.

“Mister Thorin, what happened to your foot?”

Both adult males looked down to see Frodo sitting next to the armchair, his curious eyes glued to Thorin’s toes – or rather, his lack thereof.

The question, spoken with childish wonder, pulled a tired chuckle from Thorin. “This, dear Frodo, is a long story.”

At the word ‘story’ Frodo’s eyes lit up, and before any of the two males could do anything, the fauntling hopped to his feet and clambered up Thorin’s pants with all the ease that his small arms allowed. He plopped himself down in the speechless dwarf’s lap, his little legs not nearly long enough to match the width of Thorin’s thighs, and looked up expectantly.

At first, Thorin didn’t look like he knew what to do. His arms were still resting on the armrests, though they had gained a strange tenseness and his fingers were clearly digging into the plush material encompassing the wooden seat. His blue eyes, slightly widened, darted once in Bilbo’s direction before they settled back on the youngling in his lap.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the tension washed away and Thorin’s arms tentatively came to encircle Frodo, holding the faunt to his chest with one hand and softly stroking dark locks with the other. His broad shoulders relaxed and a small smile crossed his whiskery lips. “Well, there is no escaping it I imagine. You see, a long time ago, long before your parents were even born, I was a young blacksmith travelling across Middle Earth with my family.”

“What’s a blacksmith?”

“A blacksmith is someone who works in a forge and shapes metals,” Thorin patiently supplied. How many times he had held Fíli or Kíli in a similar fashion and told them stories about Erebor, Bilbo had no clue, but the dwarf sounded well versed in the art of tale telling. “At the time, I could make almost anything I set my mind to, be it weapons or iron cookware, or even jewellery. Whenever we stopped by a town, I had no shortage of commissions and often found myself working late into the night to be ready come morning.”

As Bilbo slipped into the kitchen to fetch something to nibble on, one of his pointed ears strayed in the parlor to keep listening. He didn’t have to try very hard, though; Thorin’s deep tone was not exactly discreet.

“The trees were beginning to change their leaves when my family settled on the outskirts of a small town of Men, in Dunland. By some stroke of luck, the town happened to fall prey to goblins every month or so, and the men were in dire need of proper weapons to fight back. For days we did not put out the fires of the forge, and hammers could be heard at all hours, hitting anvils and shaping blades and shields of all sizes. On my third sleepless night, my attention was mediocre, I am afraid to say.”

“You didn’t sleep for three nights?” Frodo gasped with all the amazement befitting of a young boy.

“Reckless, I know. When my hammer slipped from my grasp and crushed my foot, I could not put the blame on anyone but myself, as my father promptly told me.”

“Your Da’ didn’t comfort you?” Frodo frowned as though Thorin had just said that winter was a perfect time to start sowing tomatoes. “That’s mean.”

“… You are not entirely wrong.”

A short yet heavy bout of silence followed, during which Bilbo was almost certain Thorin was reliving memories of his father. But what kind of memories were they, exactly? Good ones, unpleasant ones? For all Thorin had told stories about Thrór and his reign over Erebor, Thráin had most of the time been left out of the tales. Bilbo realized that he knew next to nothing about Thorin’s father.

Except that he was dead, of course. Must not forget this tidbit.

In the parlor the silence stretched uncomfortably, a fact that needed to be changed immediately for everybody’s sake.

“Behold! I managed to scavenge some bread and blueberry jam,” he boasted as he made his way back to the armchair and the two boys resting on it. “Who’s up for a sandwich or two?”

Somehow, Thorin’s grateful smile shone brighter than Frodo’s excited squeal.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re invited where?”

Bilbo cringed around a mouthful of blueberry sandwich. Of course, he had known this would not be received with utmost appreciation. At least Thorin sounded more surprised than upset, and that was a start. Thank Yavanna for small victories.

The careful hobbit had elected to wait until Frodo and the other children – for the dwarves had been playing hide-and-seek all over the smial with a bunch of curly-haired faunts who had run from Bag End so quickly that Bilbo had had trouble counting them, let alone identifying them – were on their way home before he mentioned the invitation to the wedding to Thorin and his nephews.

Maybe he should have waited a little more. At least until after Kíli was done with the blueberry jam: that would have saved his grandmother’s red carpet from egg-sized sticky smudges.

“We are invited to a wedding,” he repeated, hoping his cool façade did not betray his nervousness. “’We’ as in me and, since curiously those who stayed here failed to set Bag End on fire or squash a little one to jelly, the rest of you dwarves.”

“None of them would ever harm a child,” Thorin grunted a bit moodily. Whether he was more annoyed at the impromptu change of plan for the evening or Bilbo’s implication that his kin could willingly hurt a child was hard to tell. Regardless, the King had stopped munching on his slice of bread and was observing the brown crust as sceptically as he would an uncut gem pulled from the side of the mountain.

“I meant that as a joke, Thorin. Now, back to the matter at hand,” Bilbo pursued, “I won’t force your hand. If you don’t wish to come to the party, any of you, it’s fine by me.”

“I thought it was considered rude to decline an invitation from a hobbit, no matter the event,” Fíli pointed out, eyeing the jar in his brother’s hands as a hawk would spy on a mouse scurrying across a field.

“It is not the epitome of politeness, I’ll give you that, but considering that-”

“It is settled, then.” Fíli’s lips stretched into an infuriatingly smug grin that reminded Bilbo of a cat about to eat a sparrow. The golden-haired dwarf climbed to his feet from his sitting place next to Thorin’s armchair and reached a hand out to his brother. “Come, Kíli. If we are to party late into the night and share a dance with every lady available here in Hobbiton, a nap is in order, lest we step on vulnerable toes tonight.”

Trust Fíli to make an afternoon snooze sound very important. And to steal the blueberry jam while Kíli was busy pushing his well-fed body from the ground, as well.

“Come back!” the dark-haired dwarf barked at Fíli’s back as the scoundrel took flight toward the depths of Bag End. “If you eat it all, Fíli, I swear… Hum, see you later, Uncles!”

The term, quite clumsily and inescapably naturally uttered as the young dwarf dashed out of the parlor threw Bilbo off balance for a little while.

He knew he was considered as somebody close to the line of Durin, a dear friend perhaps, especially since he and Thorin had started courting. But part of the family? He had himself, a while before the end of the now legendary quest, begun to think of Fíli and Kíli as cousins, nephews even when he had learnt of dwarven life expectancy and how young the boys really were. He had pegged it as an adult’s need to shelter young souls, but to have the affection returned… it filled his heart with a warmth he had never thought could one day repair the cracks left in the wake of his parents’ death.

For some strange reason, it made him feel… safe.

“Are you smiling because you are thinking about tonight’s feast, or is there yet another thing afoot that I should be made aware of, may I ask?” Thorin huffed.

Bilbo chuckled. “Come on, Thorin, stop with the sour face. I told you, you can stay here if you want.”

“I will come, it is only polite if I have any regard for my intended’s family, no matter how far removed. I also promised that you would not leave my sight for an extended period of time if I can help it.”

Thorin’s voice brought tingling memories of rain and hay and cold cobblestones and Bilbo pushed them away to the deepest, tiniest corner of his mind. “Is that why you’re sulking, then? Because you’d rather stay here but I’m going to the wedding so you feel obligated to do the same?” he asked, maybe a bit waspishly but the reminder of what could have transpired in the Prancing Pony’s stables had the power to bring him close to the edge in a heartbeat.

Thorin raised his head to stare at him, but while his eyes reflected cold reproach, his voice was nothing if not gentle and collected. “Of course not. I do not feel _obligated_ to care for you just as I do not feel obligated to draw breath. It is merely part of my life. But if you must know,” the dwarf grumbled, shifting in his seat, “I do not think I can come up with a suitable gift on such short notice, and with so little crafting means available.”

“You w-what?” Bilbo sputtered. “You’re sulking because you don’t have… a gift?”

“I am not ‘sulking’”, the King snarled, burrowing his broad frame into his armchair and proceeding to do the exact same thing he was denying doing, “and yes, it bothers me. I cannot find a forge by nightfall, nor can I obtain ores to work with and the first mountain is hours away. There’s wood, but my carving skills are not… pray tell, what is it you find so funny?”

“Silly dwarf,” Bilbo giggled. “You don’t bring gifts to a hobbit wedding, you get one!”

That puzzled look brought an innocent air to Thorin’s face that lifted decades from his shoulders. “You… get one? A gift?” Puzzlement fled in favor of doubt when Bilbo nodded. “Are you sure? It does not feel right to come empty-handed to such an event.”

Bilbo resisted the powerful urge to roll his eyes. Of course, trust the almighty Thorin II Oakenshield, ruler of Erebor, to know hobbit customs better than someone born and bred in the Shire. Was his future Consort waltzing in the mines and telling dwarves which vein was worth mining and which wasn’t? No, thank you.

“Yes, I am quite sure, Thorin,” he replied, trying without success to keep sarcasm from his words. “Those gifts are usually flowers, though, so you don’t need to get all worked up. As for the matter of coming empty-handed, Bombur left something in the kitchen that will ensure that none of us will suffer from that hardship.”

 

 

 


	20. Of Weddings

The trip down to the Party Tree would have been a lot simpler if only Mahal had seen fit to carve two additional arms for his Children. As it turned out, balancing four pies with only the standard two proved to be a very strenuous business.

It was a miracle nobody dropped Bombur’s hard work to the muddy ground on their way down Bagshot Row.

“I still cannot believe you pulled this all by yourself,” Bilbo repeated for at least the third time since they had departed from Bag End. “It must have taken you all day to bake so many pies! Not to mention that you must have pilfered the butcher’s shop at the market first thing this morning.”

“That he did!” Bofur cackled, his floppy hat bouncing merrily with each of his steps. “Turned the head of ev’ry lady down there while he was at it, too. A charmer, that’s what our ol’ Bombur is.”

“Shut up,” the rotund dwarf growled, shifting his own sweet-smelling burden in his arms.

Bilbo suppressed a laugh. Of course, a dwarf with a belly as impressive as Bombur’s was fated to attract attention in Hobbiton, especially from females. The shireling may have forgotten to mention that a plump stomach was a sign of wealth and meant that a male had the means to provide for his family. Bombur had certainly become the talk of every female outing ever since he had first stepped in the Shire.

To be truthful, all of the dwarves must have become the main topic of conversation at the Green Dragon ever since they had arrived to find Bag End being auctioned off. Their entrance could not have gone unnoticed, after all, Lobelia’s high-pitched shrieks certainly took care of that.

With an unpleasant tingle, it dawned on Bilbo that he had perhaps rushed into things, allowing the Company to come to the wedding. His cousin, whatever his name was – none of the dwarves seemed to remember it – may have invited Bilbo and his dwarven escort out of politeness, but it didn’t mean that the other guests – namely, all of Hobbiton – would take well to their presence.

Some of them, maybe his Took relatives, would probably find the Children of Mahal more curious than repulsive and would approach them, if only for the sake of living up to their cheeky reputation. The Baggins and Brandybucks and the rest of them, though…

He could only hope that no great offence would be made that night and that everyone would go to bed with their limbs in their proper places.

The dwarves, at least, had done their best to look presentable. They had all washed, combed their hair and beards before they braided them and had mercifully changed their clothes without even being asked to do so. Fíli and Kíli, in a rare display of meticulousness, had even gone as far as cleaning their leather boots until they shone – a useless touch, since Hobbits did not care much for footwear, but Bilbo hadn’t had the heart to tell them.

On the whole, the pack of rowdy but well-groomed dwarves looked pleased to attend the party, chatting and joking as they made their way down Bagshot Row. The only one to counter the easy-going atmosphere was, as could be expected, Thorin.

The son of Thráin looked about as happy as a horse being led to a quartering house. A very pretty horse, though; while it held the stiffness of new material, the tunic Thorin had bought from the Crafting Hall in Bree was a perfect fit. Shades of black and deep blue were interwoven on the silk-like front in patterns similar to those Bilbo had seen on many tapestries in Erebor. The buttons were silver – “not mithril,” Thorin had corrected. “One single mithril button would be worth a hundred of tunics such as this one.” - down the front and jet on the cuffs, sizing up Thorin’s natural bulk with defeating ease. Then again, Bilbo’s suitor always looked fetching in blue.

Even the sullen, tired look under that mop of freshly-braided hair begged to be kissed off.

“I hope this will not last well past nightfall,” Thorin mumbled, a bit stiffly. “It would not do to fall asleep through supper.”

“Well, that would be very rude,” Bilbo agreed, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Unfortunately hobbit parties tend to be long and lively, lasting well into the night when stars are the only lights in the sky. Why, I remember this particular Midsummer’s Eve when I was thirty, we danced and drank from sunset to sunrise-”

“Mahal,” Thorin grunted in frustration. “Are we bound to do the same tonight?”

The glint of despair in the tired blue orbs pulled a chuckle from Bilbo. “No, you grumpy dwarf, we aren’t. It is only considered rude to depart before the Sun sets, we’ll head back as soon as we can. Most of you are quite tired and I do believe they won’t feel sorry to be rid of Mad Baggins for the evening.” Bilbo scoffed at Thorin’s frown. “Oh please, don’t bother snarling over that. I already told you, I don’t care what they call me.”

“You may not, but I do,” the King replied sourly, before he elected to stay silent for the rest of the trip. Save for a few chosen curses here and there whenever a pie threatened to escape his grasp.

As they neared the Party Tree, music began to fill the air, growing louder with every step they took. Enchanting smells, among them the delicious hints of a mutton slowly roasting over the fire, wafted over to tickle their noses. As they took a final turn around a green fence, the Party Field stretched in plain sight.

As always, large tents and pavilions had been erected to provide some shade and shelter in case of a sudden summer downpour. Long tables, both under the tents and out in the field, were waiting for guests to sit down and make merry. At the back, near the Tree, a large table was slowly filling up with dishes thanks to a dozen hobbit ladies pattering back and forth between the table and some sort of makeshift, outdoor kitchen by the Water.

In the middle of the Field, an arch of flowers in full bloom was waiting for the soon-to-be wedded couple. As they approached it, Bilbo smiled at the oversized braid of pink and white roses and he had to resist the temptation to reach out and touch their soft unsullied petals.

“What’s this for?” Bofur asked, giving the arch an incredulous look.

“This is where couples are wed in Hobbiton,” Bilbo answered, almost automatically. “They exchange vows under flowers of their choosing for the whole Shire to see.”

“Is it important, what flowers you choose?” Fíli asked, slowing his steps to fall in stride next to his shorter future uncle.

“It’s not very important, but it still reflects how you feel about your future wife or husband. Each type of flower has a specific meaning attached to it, even the smallest ones. For example,” Bilbo added when he saw puzzled dwarven eyes turning to him, “the white roses here mean that the love we are about to celebrate is pure and sincere. The pink roses in-between are an oath of fidelity and faithfulness.”

“It’s just like gems, then,” Kíli smiled. “Each type stands for something.”

“Exactly.”

As sounds of understanding bloomed among the dwarves, Kíli’s smug smile turned to a malicious grin. “And are there… forbidden flowers, to choose for a wedding?”

That devilish scamp. “There are no forbidden flowers per se, although a fair bit of them are considered improper and ill-suited for a wedding,” Bilbo obliged, racking his brain for suitable candidates to illustrate his claim. “It would be unsettling to find buttercups or clematis in a wedding arch, for example.”

“Why? What do they stand for?”

“Betrayal, treachery and deceit,” Thorin answered absentmindedly before Bilbo could respond. His blue eyes were still observing the flower arch and it wasn’t until after several seconds of silence that he realized that everybody’s eyes were set on him. “What is it?”

“How could ye possibly know that?” Dwalin huffed, surprise still clear on his features.

“I…” Although rare, a speechless Thorin was always a sight to behold. “I… read it… in a book?”

“Horseshit,” the warrior replied immediately, and would it be anyone else, Thorin’s kingly hackles would have sprung up. But this was Dwalin. “Last time I saw ye with a book, ye were ninety-nine and lookin’ for something to throw at Dís’ suitor’s head. Cough it up.”

Thorin’s eyes suddenly found great fascination in the pies he was carrying, and Bilbo was beginning to doubt his own eyesight because, well, the dark shade painting his beloved’s bearded cheeks was certainly _not_ a blush.

While the sight was entrancing, the hobbit soon took pity on the poor dwarf. He was about to call the conversation off when Thorin spoke up.

“When we first met Beorn and stayed at his lodgings,” the King began quietly, “I once wandered to the garden. I was looking for a way to thank Bilbo for saving me from Azog but I knew too little of hobbit culture, except that they liked food, pipe weed and flowers. The first option had already been provided, the second one was out of bounds so I settled for the third one. It was already late autumn and what little flowers I managed to find were small, blue things hanging from the roof of the house.”

“Clematis,” Bilbo acknowledged.

Thorin nodded. “Beorn told me as much. When I revealed my intentions, he warned me that I might offend you and told me the meaning behind those flowers. Needless to say I left them where they were.”

“You… wanted to give me flowers?”

Thorin carefully avoided Bilbo’s gaze, still lost in his study of the golden crust covering his pies. His blush worsened, creeping out from under his black beard and Bilbo wished they were alone to kiss it away.

“Just wanted to thank you,” Thorin mumbled under his breath.

Fíli and Kíli’s restrained cackles finally broke through and the brothers leaned on each other for support. “Oh, Mother is _so_ going to love this!” Kíli roared. “Uncle picking flowers under the Sun like a dainty elf! You’ll never live this down!”

“You two won’t live _at all_ if you speak a word of this to your mother,” Thorin growled.

“Don’t worry boys, I’ll tell her myself,” Dwalin smirked, sharing a malicious glance with the youngest heirs of Erebor.

Thorin turned to his life-long friend and almost snarled. “Why, you treacherous piece of-”

“Enough,” Bilbo cut in abruptly. “There is a wedding to be celebrated tonight and I do not intend to be the talk of Hobbiton because you blundering oafs decided to ruin it by wrestling it out on the Party Field. Things are already bad enough as it is, no need to add fuel to the fire, thank you. Besides,” and at this point the shireling’s voice softened, “it was very kind of you to look for a gift, and even if you couldn’t follow it through I still think this is a sweet gesture. One that I will see rewarded at a later date.”

The discreet kiss that Bilbo bestowed upon Thorin’s upper arm was not lost on the Company, who erupted in all manner of mocking coos – mainly from Fíli and Kíli – and wishful sighs from the married dwarves. However, only Bilbo was able to see the King’s eyes widening and his blush turning yet a deeper shade of pink.

A shy and prudish Thorin. How odd.

“Anyway, as I said, some flowers are considered inadequate for a wedding ceremony,” Bilbo pursued as though he had never stopped. “But nobody can go against the couple’s wishes, however daring their choice of flowers may be.” Bilbo paused for a chuckle. “My parents’ wedding, for example, was something close to a scandal. My father picked acanthus, a symbol of undying and unwavering love, which was something expected of a Baggins, really. But my mother… she was a Took through and through and half the guests almost had a heart attack when they saw her weave the red roses around the arch.”

“And red roses stand for…?” Bofur wondered, the curl of a cheeky grin ready to twist his lips.

“Carnal desire and fiery passion,” Bilbo smiled. “An improper choice if there ever was one! It even surprised the Took side of the family and many thought that Mother had gone insane. Why, Aunt Mirabella is probably still fuming and snarling over-”

“ _Bilbo Baggins!_ ”

The roar surprised the entire Company and startled most of them into dropping their burdens on the ground. Fortunately they were quickly scooped up before any real damage could be done, or before Bombur could murder them all with a glare.

Meanwhile, Bilbo racked his eyes over the Field for the owner of the bellowing voice. It didn’t take long to spot the red-headed hobbit stomping toward them, her green dress flapping in the late afternoon breeze like the tail of a venomous snake whipping the wind before an attack. The very ground under her bare, neatly-combed feet seemed to shake with each of her steps, an untold yet dangerous promise of what was to come.

“Aunt Mirabella,” Bilbo greeted with a smile, unsure as to whether or not his dread was showing. “You look stunning tonight, are those-”

“Don’t pull that ‘you look great today’ rubbish, my boy, not now and not with me!” the female hissed, stopping only inches away from Bilbo to cross her arms over her chest.

While Mirabella Brandybuck had admittedly mellowed out and began a collection of gray strands during her years in Buckland with her husband, Gorbadoc, she was still a Took, and a loud-mouthed one when she put her mind to it.

Which seemed to be the case right now.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!” Mirabella castigated and Bilbo was not surprised when Fíli and Kíli took shelter behind him, a safe distance away from the furious lady. “First you hole yourself up in that smial of yours, then what? You leave for _over a year_! And no word, no note, nobody knew where you had gone! Your uncle was beside himself with worry, you trout-faced knave, he was bedridden for days!”

“Good gracious! Is Uncle Gorbadoc all right?” Bilbo gasped.

His aunt gave an absent wave of the hand. “Turned out it was only the runs, I knew that pumpkin cake smelt funny but he never listens to… Don’t try to stray from the matter at hand, boy!”

“I’m sorry!” Bilbo hurried to say, perfectly aware that arguing would be useless and that he’d better apologize and hope that it would be enough. “I’m sorry I ran away without telling anyone. I should have sent you a letter on our way to Bree but it slipped my mind. Please, Aunt Mira, don’t be angry. I’m back now.”

‘For now’ he almost said instead, but he bit the inside of his cheeks. There would be a time and place to announce that he was leaving for good, and now would not do.

Especially not with his aunt’s green eyes piercing holes right through his soul.

“There’ll be no ‘Aunt Mira’ for you, you rascal, not before you explain just what happened in your idiotic mind for you to suddenly rush out of the Shire and come back almost two years later with a ragtag team of, of…” Mirabella’s eyes then unglued themselves from Bilbo and she squinted at the rest of the group. “You lot are Dwarves, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my lady,” Thorin answered automatically, too stunned to feel offended.

“Thank you, darling. With a ragtag team of Dwarves!” she finished. “And of course, you think you can just waltz in here with that cheeky smile and your arms full of… what is this, by the way?”

“I-it’s blueberry pie,” Bilbo stammered, thrown off balance by the sudden change of direction. “Bombur baked them today for the wedding.”

“Who’s that Bombur fellow?”

“M’afraid that would be me, my lady,” Bombur spoke, hesitation clear in his voice as he tried to determine whether he was going to get praised or scolded. To make matters worse, Glóin cowardly chose to move out of the way, thus baring the portion of Bombur’s width that he had been hiding for Mirabella to see.

“Well then, Mister Bombur,” the Brandybuck began slowly, her emerald eyes running up and down the rotund dwarf’s stature with the thoroughness of a wild cat sizing up its future prey, before her lips stretched into a pleased smile. “How very kind of you! Did you bake them all today?”

“Yes, my lady,” came the puzzled, yet relieved answer. “It was no trouble.”

“Oh, not only skilled in the kitchen, but humble as well! Well, Bilbo sweetheart,” Mirabella cooed and at that precise moment Bilbo was firmly convinced that his aunt had finally gone senile or crazy. Or both. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Shaking his head to clear it a bit, Bilbo pounced on the opportunity to escape unscathed and gave a frantic nod. “Of course, of course. Everyone, this is my dear aunt Mirabella Brandybuck, née Took,” he stated with a nervous grimace that he hoped could pass as a genuine smile. “Aunt Mira, I would like you to meet my friends from Erebor. Here you have Bofur and Bombur, and next to them you have Glóin, with the red hair, and Dwalin, with no hair. The lads hiding behind me are Fíli and Kíli and this is their uncle, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The collective bow and promise to be at Mirabella’s service pulled a gleeful giggle from the aged lady’s mouth. “My, aren’t you a charming bunch. Bell Gamgee was right, you are a very lovely lot, no matter what that foul-mouthed Lobelia says. Come, come, ceremony is just about to start,” she coaxed with a smile fit to disarm even the wildest goblin.

And with that she departed, a tune on her lips and a saunter in her elderly step.

Tooks. No wonder nobody understood them.

 

* * *

 

 

“We should have walked faster,” Dwalin grumbled, bulky arms crossed over his chest. “If we had, we wouldn’t be squintin’ like constipated ponies.”

“Oh, hush,” Bilbo hissed under his breath, looking over his shoulder at the sulking warrior. “If you want to move to the front of the crowd, feel free to proceed. But I have already attracted enough attention as it is and enjoying my cousin’s wedding from here is completely acceptable. Besides,” the hobbit added, absently dislodging one of Thorin’s braids from the seam it had caught on, “I don’t see what the fuss is about. You are two heads taller than everyone here, you can see better than I do.”

Dwalin whispered the ghost of a curse but otherwise fell silent.

As soon as they had deposited their pies on every little available space along the banquet table, the ceremony had begun and everyone had rushed to the flower arch in the middle of the Party Field. Bilbo’s dwarven escort, however, had been given a wide berth and was now observing the proceedings from the back of the curly-haired crowd.

Bilbo watched as his cousin, Adelard Took, grabbed his future wife’s hands and probably proclaimed his undying love for her. Probably, since he was well out of earshot and lip-reading had never been Bilbo’s forte, even less at such a distance. He had almost failed to recognize his cousin; Flambard’s son had undergone a great deal of changes ever since his last visit to Bag End, some ten years in the past.

It was hard to link this young adult about to found his own family to the boisterous tween always keen on stealing his umbrellas to hide them away.

“Are hobbit weddings always this long?” Dwalin groused.

“I find that they are relatively shorter when there’s no grouchy dwarf around,” Bilbo bit back, his patience with the tattooed son of Fundin wearing thin. “The ceremony started ten minutes ago, if not less. I am sure dwarven weddings last more than that.”

“They do, but they’re usually much more entertainin’ than this. This is dull.”

“And of course, you would be an expert in that field. Pray tell, how many weddings have you had the pleasure of attending?”

“Maybe we should talk about this later, when there is nobody exchanging sacred vows perhaps,” Thorin whispered, his weight shifting uncannily from one leg to the other.

“Mhmmm almost three,” Dwalin answered, ignoring his King’s comment with the ease that only he possessed. “There was first Glóin’s, in winter, I remember because that oaf slipped on ice and broke his nose one hour before the damn ceremony. Then I was there when Dís and Víli were wed.”

The tall dwarf fell silent and Bilbo knew, he knew the scoundrel was waiting for him to point out that he had only spoken about two ceremonies. The shireling pursed his lips but decided to sate his Tookish curiosity. “What about the third one? Is that the one you ‘almost’ attended?”

Dwalin’s grin looked entirely too feral to be innocent. “Aye, that’s the one. But the future husband chickened out and we had to cancel the whole thing.”

“You are speaking too loudly, we are attracting stares,” Thorin urged between gritted teeth, and for some unknown reason Bilbo could feel his suitor’s muscles tense against the arm he had pressed along the dwarf’s. “Be quiet.”

A wise command. But also one Bilbo chose to dismiss, his curiosity now piqued beyond saving.

“What Dwarf worth his beard would get cold feet on the day of his wedding?” the hobbit asked, his brow creased in confusion.

“Why don’t ye ask him yourself?” Dwalin sniggered.

Bilbo blinked. One of the Company? Certainly he would have been informed of such a thing, with the way Dwarves’ tongues seemed to loosen after the fourth ale. He racked bewildered eyes over his friends in search of a flicker of guilt, but only met puzzled gazes and astonished features.

Only Thorin could not seem to tear his eyes from the flower arch where two hobbits were being wed, his jaw stiff and the lines on his face harder than steel.

A stone dropped somewhere in Bilbo’s guts and he swallowed, once, but when he spoke his tone was still thick with trepidation.

“Thorin?”

“And now, let us feast and dance all night long!” Adelard roared from the flower arch, earning himself loud bouts of cheering from the crowd as it scattered to either make a first dent in the banquet table or congratulate the newly-weds.

As streams of hobbits moved around them, Bilbo found himself clutching Thorin’s arm to avoid being pulled away. Yet his suitor denied him the smallest glance.

“Thorin, was he telling the truth?” he demanded anew.

“I will punch his teeth in,” the King growled. “I will rip his beard apart and feed it to the ponies.”

“No no no, dearest, listen to me,” Bilbo begged, holding the taller male by his arm but knowing that he wouldn’t be strong enough to keep Thorin from harming Dwalin, should he really choose to do so. “It’s all right, it doesn’t matter, we’ve been over this. You have been living over a century before I was even born, I would be a fool if I expected you to have spent all those decades alone.” Bilbo cringed when a stray shoulder bumped into his side and mentally cursed the moving crowd. “But you never mentioned a wedding before, so I was merely… surprised.”

Those words seemed to calm Thorin, at least enough for the dwarf’s blue gaze to meet his intended’s. There, almost concealed by the shadows of anger, glints of guilt and shame danced across the cobalt pools.

“I never saw fit to talk about it,” he said at last, his tongue weighed by disgrace.

“And… would you be willing, now?”

The King thought for a moment and gave one single, solemn nod, so tiny that Bilbo almost missed it. “If it would please you.”

‘Pleased’ was not exactly the best word to describe it, but nevertheless Bilbo was glad that Thorin had decided to open up a bit instead of clamming up as he normally would have done. A testimony to their building trust, to be sure.

“Walk with me for a little while, all right?” the hobbit coaxed gently, smiling at his dwarf when he gave another small nod.

Bilbo looked over his shoulder, opening his mouth to inform the other dwarves that they would be left to their own devices for a few moments and beseech them not to scare anyone – or at least, anyone other than his dear Sackville-Baggins cousins.

However, his plea died on his lips before it was uttered, for his rowdy friends had already followed the scattering crowd and separated accordingly.

As Bilbo should have expected, Bofur and Glóin were already making for the big barrels of spirits piled up next to the largest tent, boasting about the number of tankards they could chug down and challenging one another with loud, cheerful barbs directed at the other’s virility.

On their heels, Bombur and Dwalin were making for the banquet table, doubtlessly attracted by the heavenly smells coming from the mutton ribs and cheese-covered potatoes waiting for hungry mouths. Bilbo’s stomach whole-heartedly agreed with them and gave a low rumble to convince its owner that a bite to eat wouldn’t hurt anyone, but the shireling dismissed the thought.

Still in the middle of the Field, Fíli and Kíli had found themselves a tiny horde of children. Or rather, it was the fauntlings who had gotten a hold of the two dwarven princes; among them Bilbo recognized May and Daisy Gamgee, as well as Frodo, of course. The little lad had become very fond of the Company in a short lapse of time, much to his father’s dismay if the concerned look on Drogo’s face as he watched from the side-lines was anything to go by. Those three were bold enough to grab onto the brothers’ arms and hang from them with delighted giggles; one prudent foot away, half a dozen of other younglings, among which Bilbo could only identify Saradoc’s and Paladin’s first sons. Meriadoc and Peregrin – Merry and Pippin, as Frodo liked to call them – were observing the two dwarves with hesitant yet curious eyes, itching to join their friends but too intimidated to dare step closer.

“I was afraid we might be missed, but it seems I overestimated our importance,” Bilbo snickered, starting to walk in the general direction of the Water and tugging a silent – and surprisingly docile – Thorin along.

It was only after a few long minutes and once they were well away from the general hubbub that came with a hobbit wedding that Thorin sighed heavily. “I apologize, I never thought Dwalin would ever speak of this again,” he mumbled, and if Bilbo didn’t know better, he could have sworn that it was shame, the one to blame for the King’s slumped shoulders and sullen features.

“As I said, it surprised me, that’s all,” the hobbit said softly, one hand coming up to cup Thorin’s cheek briefly, his touch too quick for anyone other than his suitor to notice. “You never spoke of this. In fact, if you don’t wish to talk about it, I understand. I was a tad too pushy earlier, don’t let me bully you into revealing things you don’t want to revisit.”

Thorin shook his head, his elbow pressing into Bilbo’s side the tiniest bit but still enough for the hobbit to feel warm at the gesture. “You are my One. You have a right to know.”

The light from the setting Sun cast flames in the dwarven King’s cobalt eyes, giving life to the memories as they bled from the past through Thorin’s baritone voice.

“It began when I was ninety,” he began, staring at the Water as though it held the answers to everything in its clear depths. “Hardly older than Fíli, and we had already suffered so much wrong. We had been chased out of Erebor by a Fire Drake, wandered homeless for years and known the loss of many while we tried to retake Khazad-dûm, my grandfather and younger brother among them. We settled in the Blue Mountains with a heavy heart that I felt could not be harmed further. I was, of course, wrong in that aspect.”

There was a pause during which Bilbo had to bite his tongue to keep from urging the dwarf on. This was not his story to tell, and even less rush.

“We lost Mother the day Erebor fell. Ever since that day my father was a changed dwarf, and my grandfather Thrór’s death only added insult to injury. When he learnt of Frerin’s passing after the battle of Khazad-dûm, each day saw Father lose yet another piece of his sanity. By the time we reached Ered Luin he was but a shadow of his former self, unable to lead, unable to care for his own children.” Thorin’s nose wrinkled in sadness and resentment. “He was drowning in a sea of doubt and fears and we did not know how to help him.

One day, he came down to the forge while I was working, distraught and panicked. He feared for the line of Durin, as I quickly gathered. He beseeched me to marry and have new, young veins running with our blood. I refused before he even finished speaking. Erebor had fallen, half my family was dead and the other half was not faring much better. I was working from sunrise to sunset, I had no place in my life for a spouse, much less one I would not choose. Furthermore, I knew that my last chance at happiness would come from a mate I would love, from the One I would be allowed to cherish. I was not about to forfeit this chance by marrying for the sole purpose of lending my loins to the line of Durin, even though I felt no Longing at the time.”

“Longing?” Bilbo asked, nose wrinkling in confusion. He had never heard that term from any of his dwarven friends, and though he didn’t want to interrupt the tale, he burned to know. Plus, it would distract him from thinking too much about Thorin’s ‘loins’ and what they could do.

Thorin made a slight face. “I know, the word we use in Westron doesn’t do it any justice. In Khuzdul it is named Uhfak, the ‘greatest joy’, and we feel it the moment we know our One is of this world. I would not be able to describe it to you with the words it deserves, for only Khuzdul could pretend to accomplish such a feat, but know that it is similar to a great pull and the promise to mend a broken piece of your soul.”

“Mhm, it sounds… burdensome. But please, don’t mind me, do go on.”

“Every day my father kept asking, and every day I repelled his pleas. Soon it led us to the point when I began avoiding him, if only to flee for a single day his unwarranted pestering and his wrath when I failed to give in to his demands. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Still, he was shadowing my steps, fearing for the blood of Durin. Until, on the morrow, he was gone.”

“Gone? You mean he stopped badgering you?”

“He was gone from Ered Luin. His pony was missing from the stables and his weapons from the armory. This is how we knew.” Thorin’s eyes rose from their intense study of his steel caps to stare at the little swirls painted by the Water as it parted around rocks. “Dís had no tears left in her to mourn him and neither did I. Thráin may have departed, but our father had already died a long time ago in the valley of Azanulbizar. His physical loss was only the next logical step and while I missed him, a foolish part of me was relieved that I would not be pressured into marriage anymore. I was young yet and did not see past what needed to be done to live another day.”

Had those tired lines always been baring Thorin’s forehead? No. Not a chance.

“As I aged, however, things changed. I saw my only sister find her One and slowly drift away. I witnessed as their exchanged the vows that made them husband and wife and gave them my blessing when they found a home to start their own family.

I could have been relieved that the future of the line of Durin was secured. I was not. To be truthful, I seldom felt anything other than fatigue, worry and a deep, unrelenting loneliness. My sister was being cared for by another and I, selfishly, needed someone to look out for. I think this is when I began to think of marriage, though I was still unwilling to explore such territories. Each new year without feeling the Longing crushed my resolve a little more, my father’s words still ringing in my ears even though he had been gone for decades.”

Unconsciously, Bilbo leaned forward and curled his fingers around Thorin’s broader ones. They were probably too far for anyone to notice, and if they weren’t, well, it was nobody’s business but his own whose hand he chose to hold.

He was entirely too immersed in his suitor’s tale to bring himself to care.

“The births of Fíli and Kíli soothed my heart for a while and I believed the boys to be the answer to my aches, for I loved them as soon as I held them for the first time. I knew then that I would gladly give my life to protect those helpless babes. Soon, however, those babes became young lads on the verge of adulthood who were perfectly able to take care of themselves and I was once more left wanting, burning for something I couldn’t quite name.

So when Hekla, a female born twenty years before I, made an attempt to seduce me, I did not back away. She was a blacksmith, much like I was, and she didn’t have a One either. I did not love her and what she felt had more to do with lust and recklessness than affection; as such, our courting was botched, quick and wobbly, the announcement of our wedding came as a surprise to our families. Many disapproved but nobody spoke against it.

On the day that we were to be wed, I sat in my room as Dís combed and braided my hair according to dwarven tradition. I thought of my unstable future, of days spent working my knuckles off and nights sharing my bed with a dwarrowdam I did not feel anything other than slight appreciation for. I thought of my wedding night, then, with dread. Would I perform well? Would our coupling be fruitful? Was this really what I wanted?

Then… that was when I felt it.”

“Felt it? Felt what?” Bilbo asked quietly, afraid to disrupt this undreamt of glance into Thorin’s past, no matter how odd it felt to talk about his would-be spouse.

The King turned his blue eyes to his short intended, his smile fond and his fingers warm as they squeezed Bilbo’s hand.

“The Longing. A great wind of promises, licking at the cracks in my heart and filling me with the hope that I could one day be whole again.” Thorin lifted Bilbo’s hand and with a reverence normally saved for the most precious of gems, laid a loving kiss on the hobbit’s fingers. “About fifty years ago, I received a hint that my One was of this world.”

Why couldn’t the Sun set faster? It would certainly hide the blush that Bilbo felt across his cheeks. To hide his reaction to his beloved’s words – and to keep from slamming his lips against that lovely whiskery smile – Bilbo cleared his throat and asked: “What did you do, then?”

“I called the wedding off. I terminated the courting in the hour that followed, thus making Hekla the most furious dwarrowdam to have ever walked on Arda. She is doubtlessly still beating away at steel in the Blue Mountains thinking about that day, imagining that it is my head she has between her hammer and anvil. We never spoke again.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, I imagine,” Bilbo winced, knowing fully well what ends frustrated females could resort to. “I reckon this is a very rude thing to do, abandoning your bride like this. I hope you don’t intend to make a habit of this!”

Thorin huffed a great rumble of a laugh and smiled, his mood visibly lifted. “Be at ease. You are too lovely a bride for me to ignore you.”

“Why, you great impudent lump!” Bilbo squeaked, his hand quick to rise and slap his chuckling suitor’s arm. The hobbit feigned to be hurt but Thorin defeating smile soon had his own lips curling up as well. “I am glad we talked. No, in fact, I’m glad _you_ talked. You should do it more often, it would help get past that broody, moody mask of yours.”

“I shall endeavor to remember it. Should we head back, then, before Bofur and Glóin get started on the tavern songs?”

“You do know how to ruin a moment, Thorin.”

 

 


	21. Of Weddings II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life uses 'Job Search'!  
> Kapoow! That's super effective! TrueRed is paralyzed!

By the time the first stars started to shine, Bofur and Glóin had almost depleted Hobbiton’s entire supply of ale, thus earning themselves many admiring looks from every male bearing witness to their impressive chugging.

Quite similarly, Dwalin and Bombur had proven their worth at the banquet table where their broad hands left no dish untouched, much to the ladies’ appreciation. Of course, Bombur’s chubby bearing had already attracted a few interested glances, his hearty appetite was all it took to endear him completely to Hobbiton’s female folk, old and young. Some of them, the boldest Tooks and Brandybucks, had even shared small bits of conversation with the good-natured cook. Dwalin, on the other hand, had been mostly left alone save for Frodo hiding behind his legs to escape a chasing Kíli’s sight.

It was hard to tell who enjoyed running around the party tents more: Dís’ sons or the swarm of fauntlings they were chasing. Their antics may have garnered a warning look or two from their uncle, but Fíli and Kíli’s smiles never faltered. It was as though years were falling away from their shoulders, pushed off by children’s laughter and joy.

From his spot, sitting at a small table with a nearly empty mug in hand, Bilbo was looking at the bunch of younglings with tranquillity and something akin to peace. He hadn’t felt this relaxed since Erebor’s main halls had been rebuilt and everybody shielded from the roughness of winter in the Eastern Reaches.

“What was her name again?” he asked lightly, turning to the dwarf busy polishing off his second tankard of the evening. “Your would-be wife’s, I mean.”

“Hekla,” Thorin provided, wiping foam from his whiskers with the back of his hand. A nasty habit that Bilbo had not yet managed to break. “Hekla, daughter of Grukla.”

“You said she tried to seduce you… how did she go about it?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin warned with a low growl.

“Dearest, I already told you: I wasn’t even born, I have no rightful cause to be angry or jealous,” the shireling scoffed. “So please, humor this curious hobbit, will you?”

The dark-haired dwarf hesitated, peering down his empty tankard mournfully, and finally sighed. “At the time, she was much younger and bolder than I was. One night, as I was working late and on my own at my forge, she came to me. She praised me on my crafting skills, and this was how I knew.”

“Oh, that’s… rather disappointing, actually,” Bilbo mumbled. “Not to mention uncanny. I am surprised you caught on such a small hint.”

“I admit that I did not fully understand until she proceeded to launch her entire body weight at me and shattered my teeth in a kiss.”

The guffaws were out before Bilbo could rein them in. “Now that’s more like it!” he laughed, helped by the pleasant buzz of ale lingering between his ears. “You scoundrel, pawing at girls in the dead of night!”

“I did no such thing. I politely explained that I was not disinclined to pursue such proclivities and that our courting may begin first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I had an axe to forge before first lights.”

Bilbo snorted. “How very romantic, you do know how to talk to the ladies.”

“Oh, he proved it already, he did.”

Both males raised their heads at the new voice to take in its owner.

With her golden tresses and bright pink dress, Bell Gamgee was a fetching sight, one that very much explained her five children and her unborn one. Her dazzling smile was reason enough for anyone to fall in love with her.

Immediately, as if pulled by an invisible string, Thorin rose to his feet and dragged his chair over to where Bell was standing. “Here, Lady Bell, take a seat.”

“Oh dear, don’t bother,” Bell protested gently, waving a hand. “I am pregnant, not terminally ill, you know.”

“Nevertheless, I insist.”

“Very well, but you are too kind with this hobbit.” Bell sat down with good grace – as well as a poorly-disguised grunt – patting Thorin’s thick forearm in thanks. Her eyes followed the King as he walked around the table to stand by Bilbo’s chair. “Are all Children of Aüle as charming as you or am I just lucky?”

“They all have their nice facets but this one’s quite special,” Bilbo chirped before Thorin could respond. The dwarf gave an annoyed huff but it was lost in the general hubbub that came with a hobbit wedding. “And where’s our dear Hamfast? Not already off to bed, is he?”

Bell shook her head with a sigh. “Not a chance. He is over there, near the barrels. See? The ridiculous one on the table.”

Bilbo turned his head to look over a crowd of curly heads and sure enough, there was Hamfast, sauntering up and down a long table, tankard in hand, his lips moving excitedly around words the son of Belladonna could not quite make out. At first glance, it seemed the older hobbit was singing some sort of tavern song; but Bilbo quickly figured out that Hamfast was shouting things to the hobbits gathered around the table.

Further inspection revealed that their attention was focused on two figures – both of which may have remained nameless to Bilbo, if not for the floppy hat and bright red hair – sitting at said table with a small army of tankards between them. Some of them were turned to the side, fallen in the line of duty, and others remained standing, proud, foam trickling down their flanks in a rabid show of determination.

A drinking contest. How very… dwarvish.

“I think he’s taken quite a shine to your friends,” Bell informed Bilbo with a small chuckle. “So did the children with those two lovely young lads…” Her eyes drifted to the middle of the field where Fíli and Kíli were sitting in the grass, talking animatedly while twirling their arms around to an audience of awe-faced miniature hobbits. “Your nephews, I gathered?”

“Correct,” Thorin nodded, the corner of his lips twitching a little as he watched his sister-sons pull surprised gasps and giggles from the group of fauntlings. The smile didn’t completely make its way onto his face, but the fond glint in the King’s blue orbs was not lost on Bilbo.

“My boys can’t stop talking about them, especially my baby Sam,” Bell grinned. “May and Daisy have taken an even greater liking to Master Dwalin, though.”

One quick glance found the tattooed warrior standing a few feet away from the banquet table, arms firmly crossed over his chest as two sets of little hands grabbed at his leather pants to climb up his unmoving frame. May and Daisy didn’t seem put out by Dwalin’s somewhat standoffish behavior, giggling in tandem as they – more or less successfully – crawled their way up the dwarf’s massive frame.

“He’s a dear. Is he taking care of children as a job where you come from?” Bell asked.

“Well… not exactly,” Bilbo said, feeling his suitor chuckle by his side more than he saw it. “Dwalin is more specialized in taking care of enemies. And not in your usual bottle-feeding and bath-giving way too.”

Doubtlessly picturing Dwalin feeding an orc a bottle of milk and hoisting it up across his shoulders to make it burp, Thorin barked a quick laugh which seemed to surprise him as much as it did Bilbo. Giving a chuckle or two of his own, the hobbit leaned sideways to rest his cheek on Thorin’s hip affectionately. The dwarf’s skin was hot under the lovely silk of his blue tunic, a nice contrast to the night air, his muscle delightfully firm underneath.

Bilbo was taken back to their morning in Bree, to the smell of mold and dust, to the sight of a drowsy dwarf and the feeling of rough, sleep-coated skin against his own and perhaps, perhaps Thorin would not object to spending the night in the master bedroom…

A sudden tensing of the muscle under his cheek broke Bilbo from his haze and it dawned on him that he had been publicly nuzzling Thorin’s hip for too long for it to seem casual. He wrenched his face away from the King’s side as quickly as he could.

Not quite quickly enough, though, if Bell’s suspicious eyes were any indication.

“Er, yes, well, all Dwarves seem to have a soft spot for children,” Bilbo sputtered, an absurd blush burning its way up to the tip of his ears as he resisted the urge to scratch the back of his neck. He felt like a tween again. “Dwarven ladies are rare, and dwarflings even more so. They’re their most prized treasure, something like that.”

Bilbo cringed even before Thorin gave his chair a light kick; this had not come out the way he wanted it.

Fortunately, Bell found this endearing enough – or had the grace to drop it – and smiled. “How sweet. It is such a pity that your kind must rely on secrecy so much, many misgivings about your people could be cleared simply by sharing a conversation once in a while.” She then stifled a yawn behind her hand. “Oh dear, I’m not as young and resilient as I used to be. One last dance and off to bed I go.”

“One… dance?” Thorin repeated incredulously, looking at Bell as though she had suddenly sprouted eagle wings.

“Yes, one dance, Master Dwarf,” Hamfast’s beautiful wife giggled. “Gracious, are pregnant dwarrowdams not allowed to do anything other than breathing?”

“I… No, this was not what I meant, it is just… well…” Thorin looked pointedly at the patch of grass in the middle of the tents that had been chosen as a dancing area, and where dozens of hobbits were currently wriggling about as music played. “Within such a large crowd, accidents may happen.”

“With you as an escort, I’m not afraid.”

“With me as-” Thorin’s eyes grew the size of Belladonna’s Westfarthing pottery, and it was all Bilbo could do not to burst out laughing. “No, I cannot… I could unintentionally hurt you and your child, this is not-”

“You’ll be fine,” Bell clucked. “Mind if I borrow him for a little while, Bilbo?”

Would that everyone in Erebor could see their King’s desperate face right now. “Be my guest, I’ve been told he’s an amazing dancer. So long as you don’t touch his beard or his hair, you won’t be disappointed.”

The look of betrayal Thorin shot him was as fierce as it would be had Bilbo pushed him in a pit filled with snakes. But to see the proud dwarf being dragged off by a female two heads shorter than him was worth it and only added to Bilbo’s mirth.

Come morning, Thorin would be on the receiving end of a great deal of teasing, if the way Fíli and Kíli rolled around the ground shaking with laughter was any hint. Witnessing the brothers’ guffaws stirred a few pearls of laughter from Bilbo’s own mouth.

“Have you got no shame at all, then? Laughing, at a time like this…”

The hissed comment could have come from a snake, low and filled with venom as it was. Strangely, Bilbo would not have minded.

“Lobelia,” he greeted dryly but he made an effort to sound at the very least polite.

When his esteemed cousin figured that Bilbo was not going to turn around to face her, Lobelia stomped around the table. Otho, her rat face of a husband, was on her heels.

“Was running off into the unknown with those flea-riddled beasts not enough?” she seethed, her cheeks almost as green as her frilly dress. “Now you have to parade them around like trophies, and to a wedding to top it off!”

“First, you’ll be thrilled to learn that Dwarves have too thick a skin for fleas to bite through,” Bilbo bit back, clutching his empty tankard with both hands to keep them from making unreasoned movements. Or signs. “Then, I’ll have you know I am not ‘parading’ anyone around. Adelard invited them himself, they have every right to be here enjoying the party and I’ll be grateful if you let me do the same.”

This comment only seemed to rile Lobelia up further and, had she had hackles, they would be all puffed up in indignation. “How dare you! You were already bad enough before you left but ever since you came back you have worsened tenfold!”

“That still makes my company twice as pleasant as yours, dear Lobelia.”

“Don’t speak to my wife like that, Baggins!” Otho snarled, dropping for once his meek and cowardly dispositions and Bilbo would not be entirely honest if he said that did not surprise him.

Fortunately, surprise seldom affected his wit, especially after the ale he had drunk.

“Good gracious, Otho, you _are_ still able to speak! Why, after all these years spent hiding in Lobelia’s skirts, it is something close to a miracle.”

He was a Took, no mistake, and if he was to be Consort Under the Mountain among thousands of Dwarves, speaking his mind would become a day-to-day task. Therefore, the look of speechless fury on his cousin’s face, Bilbo had expected and secretly enjoyed in a mutinous, anti-Baggins way.

The slap, however, he never saw coming.

 

* * *

 

 

The last being Thorin had held with the care he was demonstrating at the moment had been wee babe Kíli, minutes after he was born. But that was a long time ago, a time when his nephew could almost fit in his cupped palms and was relatively still.

Matters were a bit different with a heavily pregnant hobbit who insisted on being twirled every minute or so.

“Lady Bell, please,” Thorin groaned between gritted teeth when Bell jumped with all the grace she could muster to match the other couples crowding the dancing area all around them. “I do not think it wise to put such a strain on your body. It could harm the child-”

“Oh, poppycock, Mister Thorin!” Bell laughed, her eyes shining brighter than the stars above their heads. “I’ve danced through all of my pregnancies and what do you know, I only feel better for it! You are far too tense for this kind of celebration, it feels like I’m dancing with a walking stick… and a clingy one at that!”

Feeling immediately sheepish and self-conscious, Thorin gentled his hold on Bell’s wide waist until he could barely feel her supple flesh under her dress, his fingers grazing where before they had been digging for fear that she might hurt herself with her ridiculous antics.

“I’m not made of glass either,” Bell giggled, keeping her hold on Thorin’s arms firm to make a point. Then, with a sly look and an equally cunning smile: "Is that how you hold Bilbo when you two are alone?”

The spike of surprise made Thorin give a full-body jolt. He looked down into Bell’s laughing eyes and there found mirth, satisfaction but fondness as well.

“How… how did you know?” he asked under his breath, for there was no use denying. He was not ashamed nor did he feel uneasy about his relationship with Bilbo, he was merely… a tad bewildered by the female’s astuteness.

“Please,” Bell said as she rolled her eyes. “You’ve been looking at him as though he nailed the stars up in the skies himself all evening. Not to mention that bit with his head on your hip, I’d have to have been blind not to notice that.”

Thorin chanced a glance at Bilbo and sure enough, the hobbit was still sitting at their table with an amused grin plastered on his face. Instantly the dwarf’s heat swelled and he was overcome with the need to walk over there and sweep his intended up, to shelter him within the circle of his arms so that no harm would ever come to him until the end of days.

“See, that look here is what I’m talking about.”

Thorin chuckled, manoeuvring his dance partner away from a particularly rowdy group of tweens. “It appears there is no hiding anything from you. What kind of treacherous blackmail will I have to face in the days to come?”

“Oh, you know, just your old ‘I’ll shave your feet bare if you hurt him’ and all that.” Bell paused in her speech, sliding her hands up to Thorin’s shoulders as the tune slowed and morphed into some king of lover’s ballad. “I have to say, you are far more discreet about your affections than most couples here in the Shire.”

“So I have come to notice.”

This was no understatement. Ever since the beginning of the evening, Thorin’s eyes had been assaulted by a myriad of very punishable deeds, had they been in Erebor and had the perpetrators been his own people. Couples, old and young, helped by one tankard too many or not, holding hands and kissing for all and sundry to see without a single care in the world. Were even half of them married? Highly unlikely.

Violation of dwarven standards put aside, seeing everyone staking their claim on their loved ones so openly had the unpleasant downside of setting Thorin’s blood on fire. Centuries of traditions and decades of self-restraint prevented him from latching onto Bilbo as a leech would a fish, but Mahal, did he want. How he longed to paint his love on the hobbit’s face, one scorching kiss at a time. How he wished to hold him so close to his own heart that the organ might explode. To have his very soul reach out for its other half, its perfect match, its One…

“Now what are those two cabbage heads on about?”

Thorin followed Bell’s annoyed gaze back to where Bilbo was sitting. The carefree smile was gone from his beloved’s features, erased by the arrival of a green-wearing parasite and a meek little thing that had to be her husband. Thorin frowned; they were a nuisance, but Bilbo would get rid of them quickly. He already had.

“My One has proven a few days ago that his tongue was sharper than that vile snake’s,” he rumbled, eyes never leaving the trio as they began bickering – or so it seemed. “This should be over quickly.”

“Whatever knowledge you have about Bilbo’s tongue, please, I don’t want you to share it.”

Thorin’s eyebrows’ first reaction was to climb up to the dwarf’s hairline as his mouth fell open, but they lowered back into their rightful place when Bell giggled uncontrollably at him. “Is there no word that I can tell that will not result in mockery?”

“Well, you can keep calling me a ‘lady’, I kind of like that title.”

A few chuckles escaped the King’s own throat. Truly, there was a spark in that hobbit that reminded him of his dear baby sister. All spunk and not an ounce of shame, those two were. He prayed that when Dís finally arrived in Hobbiton and the two females met, however briefly, it would not doom the entire Shire.

Howbeit all traces of laughter died on Thorin’s lips when Lobelia’s hand sailed across Bilbo’s face with enough force to make Belladonna’s son turn his head to the side.

Raw, hot fury enveloped his whole being, a fire fiercer than he had felt since that fateful day he had sent Bard’s men away from Erebor’s highest battlements. His cheeks burned with wrath as though he had been the one the slap had been bestowed upon.

Something feral reared its ugly head in his ribcage, waking the desire to destroy, to tear at anything and anyone who wished harm upon his intended. It was not to be unleashed, he knew, for even this far gone he was aware that Hobbits were of gentle dispositions and witnessing the public murder of one of their kind would not put Thorin in their good books.

Still, it would not be said that he stood by idle as his One’s pride was so openly wounded.

“Mister Thorin?” Bell inquired, lightly squeezing his shoulders and he realised he must have stood there unresponsive for some time for the female to sound so worried. Judging by the genuine interrogation in her voice, she had not seen Lobelia’s unfortunate behavior.

“I am afraid that I will have to cut our dance short, mylady,” the dwarf informed her politely, anger he knew better than to direct at the innocent female bubbling right under his skin. “Urgent matters have sprung up that require my immediate attention.”

Without waiting for a by-your-leave, Thorin steered Bell to the side-lines where he left her with a mumbled apology and an absentminded pat on the shoulder. She spoke then, puzzlement as evident on her features as her little freckled nose, but Thorin never stopped to listen.

He had more pressing matters to tend to.

As the King marched toward the group of three hobbits who – unbeknownst to them – detained all his attention, bits of conversation reached his ears only to anger him further.

“… should have known you’d only bring disgrace and shame upon your family’s name!” Lobelia’s unbearably shrill voice accused.

“Shame? And who are you to talk about shame?” Bilbo growled back, the red imprint of his cousin’s hand burning on his cheek alongside fury. “You were auctioning off my property, my belongings as though I was _dead_ , you harpy!

Lobelia’s had the decency to twist, equal parts embarrassment and annoyance as she doubtlessly remembered that particular day. The respite it brought to everyone’s ears, however, was short-lived. “Bag End was meant for a family, for a couple and their children. Not for a bachelor so asocial and moody that even a pig-headed mule would never marry him!”

That was it. The last straw that shoved a key in the lock keeping the savage beast inside Thorin caged.

“Enough!” he roared before the words were even properly formed in his mind. “Are you not done spilling your venom yet, you witless viper? Be quiet!”

His bellow had the immediate and merciful effect of startling Lobelia into silence – as well as everybody on this side of the Field. But Thorin never saw the dozens of heads turning his way, nor did he care about the hushed whispers and retreating figures that accompanied his arrival within reaching range of Bilbo and his obnoxious relatives. He was a dwarrow on a mission.

The hobbit he had assumed was Lobelia’s husband gave a strangled yelp and, with a courage befitting of only the foulest goblins, dove behind his spouse to put a barrier between himself and the approaching, menacing dwarf.

With a growl that he hoped carried all the contempt he felt toward the home-invading rascals, Thorin came to stand between the skittish couple and Bilbo. “Have you not done enough? Have you not tormented Bilbo enough with your foolishness, the day you trespassed on his grounds and insulted his very name? You might think of us Dwarves as savages, but where I come from, we hold family in higher regards than this.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Thorin noted that musicians had stopped playing and that there was a considerable amount of eyes trained on him, some of them younger than others. Had he cared to chance a glance in Bilbo’s direction, he might have seen the surprise and mortification in his intended’s eyes.

Sadly, he did not.

“You have been nothing but a plague ever since we arrived, an irksome fly begging to be chased away,” Thorin snarled, one hand flat on the table by his side and the other squeezed into a fist at his hip. “Rumors and talks behind one’s back, I have little care for, but I will _not_ have you tarnish Bilbo’s honor in public!”

It seemed all blood had fled Lobelia’s face, leaving her as white in the cheeks as a fresh slice of goat cheese. It was probably illegal for Thorin to feel so proud about scaring such a small and defenceless creature – ‘Dwarven Laws and their Implementation’ had never been his favorite bedside book, but there was certainly a decree or two about yelling at weaker beings – but he could not bring himself to give a goblin’s ass.

The dwarf was almost caught off guard when Lobelia’s features morphed into something close to anger. Whether it was because of all those eyes glued on them or a genuine feeling of frustration, Thorin did not know, but the hobbit puffed up and had the nerve to _hiss_ at him.

“And who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do, dwarf?” she actually growled at the tall being in front of her, somehow managing to look down her nose at him even though he was towering over her.

Despicable. The words were out before Thorin thought them through.

“I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain! I am the ‘pig-headed mule’ intending to marry your cousin!”

The collective gasp informed Thorin that at least half of Hobbiton had indeed been privy to their conversation – not that he had been trying to tone it down, of course. A little voice at the back of his mind whispered that he should leave it at that, the look of pure shock on Lobelia’s face enough to warm him on cold nights for the next decade.

But no. He was sick of hiding. He was sick of Hobbits’ so-called propriety.

“You may not know,” Thorin pursued, this time addressing the whole crowd, “but in the course of a single year, Bilbo Baggins risked his life thrice as many times as all of the hobbits living in the Shire would in a century! And for what? For a home that was not even his own! How many of you know that he faced a fire-breathing dragon alone? That he was almost gutted by wargs and skinned by trolls? That he faced hunger, fever, madness for the sole purpose of reclaiming a kingdom he had no allegiance for?” Thorin shook his head. “None. None of you know that. Yet most of you insist on spreading heinous rumors about what ‘Mad Baggins’ was up to this past year.”

The heavy silence that had fallen on the Field somewhere in the middle of Thorin’s tirade hurt the King’s ears, but he was satisfied to see a few chosen hobbits shift their weights from one pudgy leg to the other in an obvious show of uneasiness. At least _they_ had the decency to look ashamed; the same could not be said about the yellow-wearing female in front of him whose eyes were still so wide they were turning a bit red around the edges.

It was high time to get rid of her.

“You have been dragging your cousin’s name in the dirt with remarkable tenacity, but hear this,” Thorin growled, his words meant for Lobelia but he made sure to speak loudly enough for everyone to hear. “One day, Bilbo Baggins will become the most important hobbit East of the Misty Mountains. One day, I will marry him and he will rule Erebor by my side as my Consort. Do you want to know what Dwarves do to anyone who besmirches Erebor’s Consort honor in any way?”

Thorin grinned when Lobelia shook her head so hard her neck almost snapped from the frantic gesture.

“As I thought. Now begone, lest you wish to test my patience further.”

With a frightened squeak, Lobelia all but ran away, her husband hot on her heels. The crowd parted to allow them through and Thorin watched, quite content, as the two ferrets retreated to where he could not see them. The dwarf was pleased to spot a few relieved faces among the hobbits gathered there. Some of them even looked thankful that Thorin had gotten rid of the annoying pest that was Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, if only for the remainder of the evening.

The glare that his intended pined him with when he turned around, however, held no such gratitude.

“You’re happy now, you idiot?” Bilbo seethed, and as his words echoed in the silent meadow, the fury in his beloved’s eyes hit Thorin harder than any slap of Lobelia’s would.


	22. Of Weddings III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment when you reach that part of the story you've been meaning to write for a while and you just can't find the right way to shape it? 
> 
> Not happening here :) enjoy!

How could Hobbits possess such short legs and large feet and still manage to walk so swiftly?

“Will you just hear me out?” Thorin called for the third time, struggling to keep up with a fuming Bilbo as he walked up Bagshot Row with the determination of a warrior marching off to battle.

As he had done the first two times, Bilbo ignored him. Who was the pig-headed mule now?

Thorin sighed and decided to wait before he tried his luck again. Maybe after they passed that pear-shaped bush up there his intended’s mood will have improved enough for him to at least listen to what his oaf of a suitor had to say.

To be honest, Thorin didn’t quite know what he had done wrong, he only knew that he had. If it wasn’t for the deep, genuine love he held for Bilbo – and if he were half as stubborn as he was known to be – he would not be trying to understand what had been so terrible about his little speech by following the sulking hobbit like a lost pup.

What would his Counsellors say, back in Erebor, if they saw him yipping at his intended’s heels in despair?

As they passed the pear-shaped bush Thorin had spotted earlier, Bilbo tripped and almost fell flat on his face. He caught himself with an annoyed grunt and resumed his brisk pace, though a slight stagger was now present in his steps.

“You should not walk so quickly when it is so dark,” Thorin said tentatively, aware that a hobbit’s eyesight in the dark was not what anyone would call acute. “You will hurt yourself.”

“Thank you Mother, I’ll try to remember it,” Bilbo snipped, his head only turning sideways the smallest bit to acknowledge Thorin’s existence.

 _Praise Mahal, he_ speaks _!_

“Bilbo, please, could you perhaps stop walking and listen?” Again, the dwarf’s plea was only met with stubborn silence. “Very well, if you do not wish to listen at least speak what is on your mind. Do not leave me wondering what I did wrong thusly.”

“What you did wrong?” Bilbo repeated, shaking his golden curls left and right as he laughed bitterly. “What you did wrong… Sweet Lady, I’m oh so glad you gave me ear! Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hear things like that.”

The words stung a bit, but Thorin nursed his wounded pride silently and stilled his tongue. If he could get the brooding hobbit to talk, even if the only thing that spilled from his usually quite pleasant lips was venom, at least the dwarf was on his way to understanding what was amiss.

Thorin chose to let Bilbo’s anger simmer down for a few moments. The next twenty steps or so were thus spent counting off Erebor’s ten most abundant metals and ranging them from common to extremely precious.

By the time he was done, the King realized with a jolt that they were standing in front of Bag End.

Thorin’s hand came down sharply on Bilbo’s as the hobbit grasped the wooden gate with every intention of pulling it open and seeking refuge in his smial – or at least, his front yard. He dismissed Bilbo’s sound of protest as his gesture was halted and squeezed the smaller fingers underneath his own. “I would have you speak to me plainly, now,” he demanded quietly, lacing his voice with gentleness for he knew this was the only way to coax his intended out of his shell. “It would not be fair if you locked yourself up for the remainder of the night without a single word of explanation. You may be angry for a good reason but I deserve to know which one.”

Thorin almost added another ‘please’ at the end of his sentence, but it already sounded too much like begging for his taste. He didn’t like it in the slightest, as it left a bitter trail in his mouth and made him feel as though he had been licking nettle, but this was Bilbo.

He would happily munch on the stinging leaves, should his One but ask.

Bilbo’s shoulders slumped as he seemed to mull over his suitor’s words, not yet issuing a word and letting the owls and other creatures of the night do the talking for him. When he finally sighed, Thorin’s heart gave a hopeful – pitiful, Dwalin would say – leap.

“Fine,” the hobbit grunted, his fingers slipping from the gate and Thorin’s fingers as he crossed his arms over his small chest. “I imagine you have a right to know.”

Bilbo’s stance was still a tad tense and his eyes reproachful, but his features had stopped looking so grim and Thorin allowed relief to fill his heart and warm his chest. There was still hope that they might end this evening nicely, using the time they had away from the Company to exchange a few embraces. Kisses, as well, loving and warm as all those couples had shared back on the Party Field…

Fighting the heat that rose to his cheeks – and at the same time thanking Yavanna that Hobbits had such poor eyesight in the dark – Thorin settled for a patient nod.

And patient he remained, though that was not his field of expertise as many would attest, through all of the three, possibly five minutes of intense silence that followed Bilbo’s last words. The hobbit’s gaze had dropped to the ground and he was scrutinizing it as though it held all of the answers of Arda.

Thorin resisted his urge to growl in frustration and cleared his throat. “Dearest, unless I am mistaken you said you would speak your-”

“I know what I said!” Bilbo blurted out, his nose wrinkling up as he huffed and Mahal, Thorin probably should not find that endearing, especially not at that precise moment. “I just… I don’t know where to start!”

Trying not to let his surprise show and keep his composure, Thorin tilted his head to the side. “Well… you could begin by explaining why you saw fit to storm away from the wedding as you did.”

“What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t stay there, not with so many eyes lingering on me after your little show.”

“My little show?” Thorin frowned. “What exactly are you referring to?”

“You! You, the way you… Ungh!”

With a half-strangled sound of despair, Bilbo grasped fistfuls of his honey-colored hair and Thorin involuntarily cringed when the courting braids he had so carefully weaved earlier that evening were pulled along. His fingers itched to reach out, to pry his intended’s hands off, but he resisted.

It was a close call, though.

“What exactly have I done, Bilbo?” the dwarf breathed.

“You don’t need to ‘rescue’ me every time I’m having a bit of trouble!” Bilbo hissed, mercifully letting go of his strands. “I was handling them, I’ve been doing so for decades! You don’t have to step in as though I’m your personal damsel in distress. When we’re in the middle of nowhere and there are orcs or spiders or other unsavory creatures lurking around, that’s fine, but not here! Not in the place that was my home since I was born and where the most dangerous thing that could happen to you would be tripping on your way down to the market!”

Under the strength of the accusation, Thorin almost took a step back, as if he was facing a rather ugly goblin in lieu of the hobbit he cherished. “You are angry because I tried… to help you?” he asked, trying to sort out his puzzled thoughts; he had never expected… well, he hadn’t expected anything in particular, to be honest.

“That’s only part of the problem,” Bilbo pursued, bitterness leaving his words to make way for dismay. “Never mind the fact that thanks to you everyone in Hobbiton thinks that I am too weak to lead my own quarrels, now they also know that we are courting and that one day we’ll get married!”

“I clearly remember you stating that you did not care if they knew,” Thorin felt obligated to point out, a bit miffed himself though he did a decent job of hiding it. For now.

“I never said that, I said something along the lines of me not trying to hide our relationship from the outside world and let people draw their own conclusions,” Bilbo retorted. “I intended to tell only the people I knew I could trust and if the news spread out, well, we would probably have been halfway to Erebor by the time it reached unfriendly ears. I never asked you to shout it out where everybody could hear you!”

It was Thorin’s turn to cross his arms in front of himself, plastering a light scowl on his features. “Are we really back to this conversation? I thought this was settled.”

“There’s a difference between acting normal about our feelings for each other and flat out yelling about it in a crowded place, Thorin,” Bilbo growled, but his tone softened. “I’m not ashamed of you, of what we have, but I’d rather not rile everyone up for the time we are to remain in Hobbiton and this is not how things are done here.”

“Is it not?” Thorin grunted moodily in spite of his resolution to be patient and understanding. “I have seen how ‘things are done’ in this town, most of them improper behavior and punishable acts by dwarven standards, yet I have mastered my preconceptions and forced myself into a state of objectivity. It is quite curious to see that you are unable to do the same.”

“You aim to tell me that all Dwarves announce their intentions to marry so openly? From a secretive race such as yours, that would be rich,” Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin raised one eyebrow but let the offending comment slide. “Courting braids are as good as a public speech to announce a claim on somebody, I already told you this. They are more lasting and less fickle than the general behavior I have borne witness to all evening.”

“Fine! We get it! Hobbits are vain and everything they do is pointless!” Bilbo snarled, gesturing with his hand as he only did when profoundly irked. “They are so feeble and Dwarves are so much better. But this is the Shire, Thorin, this is not Erebor or even the Blue Mountains, and dwarven ways have no hold over Hobbits.”

“I have seen people conduct themselves in a way that would be thought of as extremely brazen by my kin, even more so than if they had been yelling their love for everyone to hear,” the King objected, unfortunately distracted by the way his hobbit shuffled his big feet when angry. What he wouldn’t give to end this fight and drag Bilbo inside to stroke the soft tufts of hair on these ankles…

Thorin was not sure he could quell the fires of his affection much longer; ridiculously rattled as his One was, he still was very much… attractive.

_This futile quarrel had better end soon, or else…_

“It doesn’t matter what you think, the only thing you need to keep in mind is this: this is _not how couples court here_!”

_That’s it._

Other words certainly meant to leave Bilbo’s mouth; however they were halted in mid-sentence as Thorin’s lips came down on the hobbit’s for a fierce kiss, effectively shutting him up and bringing out the softest half-strangled mewl from his throat.

Immediately, his broad hands enclosed the hips he had dreamt of for the entire trip back from Bree and tugged Bilbo close, as close as all those dancing couples had been all evening, taunting him, putting on display what he had been taught was not to be shown outside of personal quarters. If this was how Hobbits courted, if this was how ‘things were done’ in the Shire, what was a humble King to do but to yield?

His mouth never leaving the heavenly soft lips that were so keen on snapping at poor dwarven suitors, Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist and held tightly, making sure that his hold was not painful but still inescapable. Then, with the practice of someone who had spent his whole life wielding forging and battle hammers alike, the King lifted Bilbo and cradled him against his chest.

“Thorin,” the hobbit panted when his lips were released for a second, both a plea and a warning as his fingers dug into the shoulders of Thorin’s tunic, but the dwarf was past caring.

His blood hot and blubbing right under his tough skin, Thorin kicked the gate open and strode in Bag End’s front yard, never bothering to look back to make sure that the wooden door had swung close again. As he hurriedly climbed the few steps that would lead them to the threshold, Thorin’s fingers accidentally slipped beneath the rim of Bilbo’s waistcoat. A mere brush of calloused pads against peach-soft skin, nothing more, yet it pulled a possessive growl from Thorin’s throat and fuelled him on.

The green door was large and smooth. Too smooth, perhaps, and that knob in the middle would hurt Bilbo should Thorin decide to rest his hobbit’s weight against it. The dwarf briefly considered opening the door to bask in the privacy of the entrance hall, but that feat would require using his two hands and thereby unlatching himself from the pleasantly plump body snuggled into his chest. The mere thought of being deprived of his intended’s warmth for even a second made Thorin’s grip tighten on Bilbo.

The windowsill would be a perfect ally in his quest to honor Hobbits’ courting rituals. With all the gentleness he could muster – for even in his haste, Thorin knew that a halfling’s body was to be handled with utmost care – the King of Erebor deposited his future Consort on the narrow overhang under the glass window, guiding furred ankles around his hips so that Bilbo’s weight would rest against his solid frame and circling the hobbit’s waist with his own arms to steady him.

There. He was free to nuzzle those smooth cheeks and claim those tempting lips anew.

Somewhere at the back of his mind there was a voice, a little Balin shaking his metaphorical fists around as he ordered him to stop this folly and show some propriety. Such behavior from a dwarrow of Thorin’s age was downright improper, even more so since this dwarrow happened to be King, but the indignant shrieks were quite easily covered by the blood pumping in Thorin’s ears and a persistent, untamable roar of _mine, mine, mine!_

All at once, Thorin wanted to taste, to smell, to touch the small body he had come to crave before he was even King, back when he was nothing more than a blacksmith gone on a suicidal quest to reclaim a homeland. All of his pent-up frustration of the evening, all of his embarrassing dreams from the past week, he poured them into his kisses. When he needed to part for breath, Thorin trailed soft nips down the heaving column of Bilbo’s throat, resisting the urge to groan when his intended panted undecipherable gibberish directly into his ear. A small lick up that delicate pointed ear, a warm kiss beneath that enticing jaw, and Thorin’s whiskers were once more nuzzling Bilbo’s beardless features as their lips met.

Small fingers were in Thorin’s dark strands, neither stroking nor sliding away, but after a while the dwarf felt tiny tugs pulling his head back and he involuntarily growled, pleased. Up until then Bilbo had remained mostly unresponsive, save for his ragged pants and the way his ankles clung to his suitor’s waist – though Thorin suspected that this had more to do with fear to fall from the windowsill more than anything else – so the small pulls were very welcome indeed.

“Is that acceptable, then?” Thorin breathed hotly against Bilbo’s lips, his forehead coming to rest against the other male’s. “Is that how couples court in the Shire? For I dare say, I could become accustomed to it…”

As one of his hands left the safety of Bilbo’s waist to trail down a soft thigh, Thorin’s hair was tugged once more, sharper this time, and he grinned wolfishly. Of all things, he hadn’t expected Bilbo to remember that he liked a little roughness when he played, especially in the hair department. “I’ve watched you all evening,” he murmured huskily, mouthing the words across Bilbo’s lips and along the line of his jaw as his broad hands massaged stubbornly-pudgy hips. “As you walked, as you danced, as you laughed. You have the most beautiful laugh, my Bilbo, my treasure, my ghivashel…”

Thorin dove for another heated kiss but the next two-handed pull on his hair kept him from the lips he wanted, and he almost flinched. This had been very uncomfortable, almost painful even, and prompted the thought that perhaps Bilbo was not enjoying this exchange as much as Thorin did.

A quick glance into his beloved’s hazelnut gaze told him everything he needed to know.

While he had expected satisfaction and desire – and perhaps a little bit of lust as well, to be honest, his male pride would not have taken offense – the mixture of fear and anger in Bilbo’s eyes had Thorin’s heart dropping right to the bottom of his bowels.

Suddenly, the dwarf’s mind cleared, as if he was waking from a haze and discovering just what kind of place he was standing in. Before, he had only experienced it after a serious battle during which he had lost consciousness, only to come to his senses in the wounded’s tent or in the arms of somebody dragging his body to safety.

Never before had he woken up only to realize that he was quite savagely kissing his One where anyone could see, his thick arms and massive bulk caging the smaller body against the front of his family home and _Mahal,_ had he really been humping the wall?

Immediately, Thorin disengaged himself from between Bilbo’s legs, hot shame carving a well-deserved trail down the back of his neck as he helped the hobbit down on solid ground as gently as he could. He could not bear to look into his intended’s eyes again, not so soon, and settled for staring at the stones that Bilbo’s father had clumsily shaped into stairs. The anger he could withstand; there was, after all, nothing very endearing about being bullied into kisses in the middle of a quarrel and this was not how a loving suitor should conduct himself.

The fear, however… it had bile rising in his throat. The frightened glint in Bilbo’s gaze was disgustingly similar to the one he had worn in those stables, half-naked and shivering, as rain pounded heavy and wet on the cobblestones outside…

Thorin was going to be sick.

Should Bilbo decide to send him away, he would deserve it. Should he ask to terminate the courtship, well, Thorin’s heart would probably wither away but still, Bilbo would be within his rights to do so. A dwarf who went against his One’s wishes deserved little more than to be abandoned, he knew and understood. Then again, maybe Bilbo would see what had driven his suitor to act thusly and would find it in his heart to forgive him; but to think like this made Thorin feel like a deluded fool.

The quiet patter of feet and the soft click of a lock as it was opened and closed again only gave weight to Thorin’s greatest fears.

 

* * *

 

 

The walk back to the Party Field proved to be a very tedious business.

Thorin had spent a long time standing in front of Bag End’s great round door, his arms hanging slack at his sides and his shoulders slumped in defeat. One hour, maybe two had trickled by, with only the sounds of nightlife to provide a background to his muddled thoughts. Light had come on in the kitchen after a few minutes of deafening silence; was Bilbo fixing himself a midnight snack? He had not eaten much at the wedding, preoccupied as he had been. He was certainly very hungry.

Then the light had disappeared, carried into the master bedroom where it filtered through the window for a few minutes until it was snuffed out, and Thorin’s heart ached at the mental picture of Bilbo curled up in bed alone with only dark thoughts weighing down on his mind.

The dwarf had waited, wondering if he should go ahead and knock or simply leave. He was such a pathetic fool; he should not have argued, should have kept his pettish dispositions under lock and key and stick to heartfelt apologies. If he had, perhaps he would not be standing in front of his One’s smial like a complete idiot.

When Thorin finally figured out that he was too much of a coward to enter and brave Bilbo’s foul mood for the second time that night, he had turned on his heels and started a slow and painstaking walk back down Bagshot Row in direction of the lights of the Party Field.

A few hobbits crossed his path, only taking note of his presence when he was within hearing range and thus allowing him to catch snippets of conversation from time to time. Unsurprisingly, given how hectic living in the Shire seemed to be, there was one main topic that seemed to steal all of the locals’ attention for the evening.

“Always knew them Dwarves were a savage bunch, ‘specially with their mates…”

“… saw that feral glint in his eyes? Wouldn’t want to be in Baggins’ pants right now.”

“… courtin’ a dwarf, really, is there no end to Mad Baggins’ oddities?”

“Downright improper, that whole business, and no mistake.”

Of course, they would always notice that they were being listened on too late, and Thorin did not miss a single opportunity to hand out the darkest glares he could put together – and with the way this evening had turned out, he didn’t have to try very hard. He would huff in bitter amusement as the sheepish halflings tried to keep walking casually, firmly convinced that Thorin never saw them glance back at him and exchange hurried whispers.

He had no real care for what Hobbiton’s residents thought. He only cared that, had he played his cards differently, he could be elsewhere right now instead of dragging his weight down Bagshot Row like a lost soul.

He could be sitting on a plump bed, his newest tunic draped over the back of a chair as he watched Bilbo wriggle out of his waistcoat, an endearing scowl marring his intended’s features as he mumbled the nastiest things about chocolate cakes and how grown hobbits should definitely avoid them. Perhaps Thorin would have lent a helping hand or two to tug the offending garment off, reaping a sigh of relief and a quiet ‘thank you’ for his trouble. Then he would have looked away, sneakily venturing a peek as Bilbo changed into a nightshirt of his convenience and joined him in bed. The two of them would have traded all manner of endearments and caresses, basking in each other’s presence after a whole evening spent sharing one another with all of Hobbiton. Kisses would have certainly been involved, soft and loving, the furthest thing from the brutal clash of teeth that had taken place on Bag End’s threshold.

Thorin would have hugged Bilbo close, nuzzling into honey-colored hair until the hobbit laughed and told him to stop, that he would have mutinous tangles to work with in the morning if the dwarf kept this up. The King would have relented, setting his chin on Bilbo’s curls and drawing one smaller leg up to stroke the furry ankle until his intended gave a content sigh. They would have fallen asleep like that, as close as two separate beings could ever hope to be – while remaining on chaste grounds, that is – Thorin’s belly fuzzy with ale and his heart filled to the brim with love for his small, cherished One.

If only.

When he finally set foot on the Party Field again, Thorin noticed that at least two thirds of the guests had already gone home. The lights from the smaller tents had all been extinguished, leaving only a few torches alight around the main tent, near the Tree. How much time had he allowed to trickle by, standing in front of Bag End?

The King spotted his fellow dwarves easily enough. Glóin and Bofur were using each other as overgrown and hairy walking sticks, their legs wobbly and silly grins plastered across their faces as they swam in the afterglow of their drinking contest. Slowly, painstakingly, the two dwarrows were struggling to walk across the Field, possibly trying to find the lane leading to Bagshot Row. Thorin passed them by without a single word, far too lost in his dark ponderings – and too jealous of these two idiots, who would be welcome in Bag End for the night… should they ever find Bag End in their current state.

Laid out on top of a heap of blankets, Fíli and Kíli were fast asleep. Few of the children that had played with them all evening were still there, but those whose parents had yet to leave the party were curled up by the brothers’ side, arms and legs wrapped around any dwarven limb they could reach as they snoozed contentedly. One mother was carefully disengaging her little girl from Fíli’s loose embrace and, holding the child against her shoulder, she bent and tugged a blanket from under Kíli’s leg to cover the two young dwarves. The fond look she graced his nephews with soothed Thorin’s heart for a moment; at least his outburst had not damaged the trust some hobbits had chosen to give the rest of the Company.

Dwalin was sitting on a stool that apparently had never been carved with the enormous weight of dwarven warriors in mind. One of his massive elbows was resting on the table, his head tilted to the side and the burly arm thrown around a hiccupping Hamfast’s shoulders a dead giveaway that Dwalin had too indulged in one tankard too many that night. From where Thorin stood, he could only see his friend’s bearded mouth move around words that Hamfast frantically nodded at, his cheeks red from the cool night air and his nose dipping every now and then, threatening to hit the table.

“A fine sight, isn’t it?”

The clear voice had Thorin’s head snapping to the side. His eyes instantly found Bell; her smile was still as warm as it had been all evening but there was no mistaking the strangle glint in her soft gaze for anything other than what it really was: discomfort.

“I never thought my cautious Hamfast would ever become fast friends with a dwarf, let alone one as fearsome as your friend… meaning no offense of course!” she added quickly, her hands worrying at the belt of her summer dress.

It hurt, to see such a lively creature so hesitant when a few hours before she had been dancing and laughing on his arm. “None taken, milady. I must say I am quite surprised myself. Dwalin has never been one to befriend anyone he has only just met. Did you happen to witness how this situation came to be?”

“As it always does: with a drinking contest,” Bell sighed. “They only got to two or three tankards before they started babbling about this or that. I believe I heard something about barrels and how difficult it was to find good ones, for some reason Elves were mentioned. Anyway they quickly abandoned their contest and have been chatting ever since.”

“I see.”

A few seconds of awkward silence settled, in the course of which both Thorin and Bell pretended to be deeply interested in the drunken conversation Hamfast and Dwalin were sharing – and doing a poor job of it. Thorin had never been good at lying, a fact that his siblings had chosen to take advantage of early on, neither did he ever succeed at faking anything.

As such, he was relieved when Bell spoke again.

“So… a King, then?” she drawled, her eyes now definitely avoiding his questing gaze.

Thorin inwardly groaned; he had forgotten that his kingly status was no longer a secret, since he had seen fit to shout about it where all of Hobbiton could hear. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. “Yes. I am King of Erebor, though I was not crowned so long ago.”

Bell startled fiddling with her hands, visibly distraught. “Gracious me… here I was, dancing and ordering a real King around! Sweet Lady, I even bugged you about your relationship with Bilbo…”

“Peace, Lady Bell,” Thorin requested quietly, raising a calming hand. The hobbit had started to hyperventilate and this could not be good for her babe. “You were not aware of my status and now that you are, I insist that you do not change anything in your acts or your words where I am involved. I may be King, but I am not King of yours as you are no dwarf. Please, let us remain what we were until now: friends in the making.”

The smile that bloomed on Bell’s face was genuine this time, soothing Thorin’s apprehensions for a blissful moment. “In that case, dare I ask how things are between you and my dear neighbor?” she asked quietly, carefully, and the dwarf was glad that at least one person in the near vicinity had enough wits not to yell about controversial topics.

“My behavior caused him great displeasure, I gathered,” Thorin said, his heart heavy once more as he was reminded of Bilbo’s reproachful gaze. “According to him, I should not have been so… straightforward in uncovering our private life.”

“Well, it was a bit daring, I’ll give him that,” Bell nodded. “You cert               ainly made a few Bagginses gasp and blush. But I also saw a good deal of Tooks smirk and give Bilbo envious looks.” Thorin’s ears perked up and his curious gaze brought a chuckle out of Bell. “Your fiancé is both a Took and a Baggins. He needs time to figure out which side he’d rather listen to and if I know something about Bilbo, it’s that he was never one for grudges. Why, he even invited Lobelia over for tea after she tried to steal his mother’s silverware for the second time!”

By all means the hand she closed around his shoulder for a heartfelt squeeze should not bring such a wave of warm comfort over Thorin, yet it did. He allowed himself to enjoy this mother’s touch for a while, this peaceful press of fingers that took him back, back when he was a young lad without a proper beard or the weight of the world stacked on his shoulders. This creature, this smiling being was at least one century younger than he was, yet there was so much compassion and wisdom in her words that she was a bittersweet reminder of Thorin’s own mother, his dear amad, lost to the flames that had ravaged Erebor so many decades ago.

But the hateful drake was dead, and Erebor retaken. His heart had no cause to be restless.

The haze that had settled over both dwarf and hobbit was broken by a little yet overly enthusiastic voice chirping from somewhere near ground level.

“Mom, Mom, can I sleep at Frodo’s tonight?”

Both adults looked down to see two fauntlings in the midst of giving their best attempts at a cheerful smile. Sam’s nervousness was palpable, this much clearly showed in his far too stretched grin – and the fact that his round eyes were darting back and forth between his mother and the bulky dwarf to her right – but Frodo was almost bouncing with glee, his little curls following along.

Bell raised one quizzical eyebrow. “Wasn’t Frodo supposed to sleep over at home?”

Sam’s smile faded and his little nose scrunched up in childish annoyance. “Yes, but May and Daisy will be there too.”

“Well, they happen to live there as well, sunshine. How is that suddenly a problem?”

“They’re mean all the time!” Sam blurted out, his little arms flying around to better express his ire. “They keep pulling on our hair to stick flowers in, they laugh when we tell them to stop, they’re just mean!”

Frodo nodded furiously and the look of deep indignation on his youthful face had Thorin biting back chuckles in spite of his sour mood. To be young and carefree…

“So can I please sleep over at Frodo’s tonight?” Sam pleaded, putting on his best impression of puppy eyes that had certainly been honed and well-practiced over the past few years.

Maybe it was a small mercy, after all, that Thorin had never had children of his own. He was not sure he would have been able to deny them anything had that kind of look been their weapon.

Bell gave the two lads an apologetic smile. “I would have said yes, sweethearts, but Drogo has already gone home and your father, Sam, is too…” There she paused, searching for words that would best explain the situation while still be suitable for a child’s ears, “… tired to accompany the two of you.”

More like stuck under a drunk dwarf’s meaty arm but Thorin chose not to correct her.

“We can go alone, we’re big enough now!” Sam boasted, puffing out his little chest with all the assurance of a warrior braving his very first battle.

“Frodo’s grandfather’s smial is on the other side of Hobbiton, I am not letting you two walk all the way over there alone in the middle of the night,” Bell said gently but with a firmness that allowed no back talking. “I’m sorry boys, the answer’s no.

The crestfallen look that blanketed both fauntlings’ features made Thorin’s heart freeze in his chest and his first instinct was to do anything in his power to wipe it off.

“I can take them,” he said quickly, before he even thought about it.

Three pairs of eyes switched to him, all hopeful glints and puzzled blinks.

“You?” Bell asked.

“If Frodo knows the way of course,” the dwarf added cautiously, a tad nervous under all that sudden scrutiny. “I would hate to get lost on an unknown hill in the middle of the night.”

“I know the way!” Frodo squealed, grinning and bouncing once more. “Is it all right if Mister Thorin comes with us? Please please say yes!”

Bell hesitated. “Well… I suppose, if Mister Thorin doesn’t mind…”

“I would not be offering if I did,” the King replied with an amiable smile. “You can go home and rest assured that I will see these two to safety. Besides… I don’t have much to do with the remainder of the night, anyway.”

Sadly, this was the truth.

 

* * *

 

 

“And then Merry said he could climb the apple tree but he fell on Pippin and made him cry!”

Frodo’s hand was warm in the cradle of Thorin’s fingers and his clear voice a balm to the King’s wounded heart. It mattered little whether Bilbo was angry at him or not; the Baggins family, especially its youngest members, had his entire devotion.

“Was young Peregrin hurt?” Thorin asked, unwilling to use nicknames to refer to Hobbiton’s children. Yet.

“He has a big bump, the size of an egg his dad said,” Samwise put in quietly as he walked on the other side of Thorin. The young Gamgee was reluctant to reach up and grab the dwarf’s free hand, this much was obvious, but he did not stray away from the King’s side and occasionally grabbed a little fistful of fabric from the dwarven pants. For all he had been cocksure and boastful in front of his mother, young Sam was quite anxious when confronted to the darkness of night.

The three of them had been walking for some time, up and down lanes that slithered from one hill to the next, and Thorin fervently hoped they would not put out the last lights on the Party Field for a while. If they did, he would probably wander aimlessly through the Shire until the Sun rose and he realized he was standing in Bree’s main street.

It would not be said Thorin Oakenshield lost his way thrice in Hobbiton.

“How much farther is your grandfather’s home, Frodo?”

“Not much, maybe a hill or two… Look!”

Thorin startled at the sudden cry and a surge of dread, unwarranted as it was, climbed his way up his throat as Frodo’s hand was wrenched from his. “Frodo, where are you going?” he called after the running faunt. “Slow down!”

By some miracle – or maybe out of sheer fright – Samwise chose to remain by his dwarven escort’s side. But when Frodo tore between two gardens and disappeared behind a bush, Thorin snatched one of Sam’s little hands and hurried after the fleeing Baggins.

“Frodo, stay with us,” Thorin said when Bilbo’s nephew was sighted once more, standing near a patch of trees with a few pony-sized boulders scattered around. There were no smials around, no paths; the area was seemingly a spot of wilderness marking the outskirts of Hobbiton.

They had strayed off track and Thorin was about to call Frodo again; but the wide smile on the lad’s bright face killed any word the dwarf might have said about Drogo being worried about their whereabouts.

“Look, Mister Thorin!” Frodo said, pointing at something in the bushes near the trees. “Fireflies!”

Thorin’s gaze followed Frodo’s finger; and sure enough, there was a myriad of tiny dots punctuating the dark canvas of the night sky, flitting around this way and that and leaving a thin trail of light in their wake.

Quite the enchanting sight, even more so from a child’s point of view.

“Uncle Bilbo taught me how to catch them without hurting them,” Frodo explained, the smile on his face nearly enough to beggar even the Sun. “Come on, Sam! Help me catch a firefly for Mister Thorin!”

In less time than it took to say ‘Durin the First’ the two faunts were off, all restraint tossed to the winds as they ran around in circles, their laughter filling the air as they flayed in hope to catch one of the escaping bugs. With very little success, to be truthful.

Thorin considered calling them back to him and leading them where he had promised he would.

Instead, he sat down on a rock and watched on with a sharp but fond eye as the young boys pursued their foolish – but immensely amusing – quest to capture one of the tiny dots of light.

They had time, here, in the Shire. He was allowed to shake off the worries that plagued his mind for a while; they would resurface soon enough, with the arrival of Dís along with the rest of his people. But for now, he needed to release some tension, to let go of his need to remain inflexible and – dare he even think about it? – enjoy his time in Hobbiton while he could.

Thorin leaned forward until his elbows were resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving Frodo and Sam as he willed his body to relax, to make the best of the good night air and forget his hardships, both existing and those to come, until he had to face them again. A very unusual task for somebody as strung up as he knew he was, but he figured there was no harm in giving it a try.

As a result, he allowed his guard to lower the tiniest bit.

It mattered little. Had he heard the low growl a second sooner, it would have still been too late.

 

 

 

 

 


	23. A Shadow on the Shire

It took Bilbo until the first wisps of dawn, as the eastern sky slowly took on a pinkish hue, to figure out that he was not going to find sleep, regardless of the amount of tossing and turning.

For hours he had been wriggling on his bed, staring in turns at the ceiling or the small window in the far corner as he waited for his eyelids to grow heavy and his mind to fall in the blessed unawareness of slumber. And for hours, he had been denied the sweet release of unconsciousness, left alone to face his thoughts and regrets.

Bilbo felt quite ashamed about his quarrel with Thorin. True, the insufferable dwarf had managed to upset him beyond words with his unwarranted performance on the Party Field, but maybe he didn’t deserve to be treated the way Bilbo had chosen. Preconceptions and misgivings put aside, the poor King had only spent a handful of days in the Shire; how could Bilbo expect that hot-blooded dwarf to turn into a gentlehobbit in such a short span of time?

Not that he was certain he wanted his suitor to become just that. Thorin’s fierce temper, while sometimes irritating, was one of those things Bilbo appreciated more in the dwarf. He just had to learn not to be upset whenever those fiery dispositions took shape, no matter how improper and unnerving those shapes tended to be.

It was not as though he had _meant_ to snap at Thorin, or leave him alone on Bag End’s threshold. It just… had been the only thing a sensible hobbit could do. Surely it was. Then again many in Hobbiton could attest that Bilbo Baggins was anything but a sensible hobbit, as of late. This new day had not properly started, yet the first tendrils of a massive headache were pulling behind the tormented hobbit’s eyes.

Bilbo sighed. The Sun would rise fully in an hour or so. Might as well get started on breakfast.

Running a hand down his weary and sleep-deprived face, he rose with a tired grunt. Snatching his pants and shirt from the ground took longer than it normally would, as did clasping his braces into place, but soon Bilbo was decent enough to leave his bedroom and brave this new dawn. He would worry about wrinkled clothing and tousled hair after his second cup of tea.

Quietly, he opened his bedroom’s door and padded into the hall. Bag End was silent, calm and peaceful and for a few seconds Bilbo wondered if any of his dwarves had made it home for the night. On light feet, he approached one of the spare rooms that housed his companions and listened with his ear against the thick door, feeling every inch the burglar he had been hired to be two years before.

He released the breath he didn’t know he had been holding when muffled snoring floated from inside. At least some of his bearded friends had made back to Bag End after the party. Could it be that Thorin… was in here as well? Curled up on a bed by himself with more worries than he usually had to deal with weighing down on his mind?

True, he was still quite angry at Thorin… but that did not mean he had stopped caring.

Suddenly Bilbo’s fingers itched to push the wooden panel and see for himself instead of taking shots in the dark. The mere thought of Thorin sleeping – although Bilbo doubted sleep had found the poor dwarf, not after their quarrel – on his own, braids tangled and his fear of somehow botching his courtship his only blanket, made frozen fingers grab around Bilbo’s heart and _squeeze_.

He was spared the effort of opening the door when it swung open on its own, sudden hope flaring in his chest. But instead of a tousled, bed-rugged King, it was only Glóin who stepped out of the room.

“Morning,” the red-haired dwarf groaned, bringing a large hand up to rub at one sleepy eye.

Bilbo quashed his disappointment under a very bright, very fake smile. “Good morning, Glóin. I trust you’ve slept well?”

“T’was well enough, until I woke up to find me head feelin’ like it was trampled by a boar and me bladder about to explode.”

Ah yes, the Gamgees’ special Moonshine had that unpleasant downside, as Bilbo had found out the hard way. His smile turned genuine as he commiserated with the dwarf’s discomfort. “Why don’t you freshen up a bit and join me in the kitchen? I’ll make you a cup of tea that might help with this particular problem, I know it always did for me. Then you can have some breakfast or try for another hour of sleep, how does that sound?”

“Stunning,” Glóin grunted. “I can’t bear Bombur’s snorin’ any longer anyway.”

“Mhm, yes.” Bilbo clasped his hands behind his back to keep his nervous fidgeting away from the red-haired dwarf’s eyes. “Who… who is in there, aside from you and Bombur? I-I need to know how many eggs I have to fetch from the pantry.”

Doubtlessly the worst excuse Bilbo had ever thought of, but Glóin’s addled mind fell for it. “I seem to remember comin’ back here with Bofur, and Dwalin’s asleep on the floor. I had t’step over the stupid thing to get out. Saw nobody else.”

Oh. Well.

Bilbo could not decide whether he felt more worried or relieved. He needed time to sort his thoughts before he faced Thorin again, but to know that he was in a remotely unknown place, certainly out of Bag End… it had his guts twisting a little in apprehension.

Fortunately, as he had informed the dark-haired dwarf the night before, danger only rarely bothered to affect the Shire, if ever. Maybe someone brave enough would bring Thorin back to Bag End at some point in the morning, complaining about trampled flower beds and scared children. Bilbo would just have to apologize and promise that it would not happen again, ushering Thorin inside as the stray dwarf sulked.

He would not put it past Thorin to get lost – again – in Hobbiton in the middle of the night.

As Glóin dragged his considerable weight away to release the pressure on his bladder, Bilbo walked to the kitchen, guided only by the weak rays of sunlight that filtered through the eastern windows.

Forcing a hummed melody past his lips, the hobbit ducked into the pantry and grabbed a large plate. From the lower shelves he chose a few sausages and a dozen eggs; it was the last of them, a trip to the market would be needed before noon. Bread and jam were next, carefully balanced on one arm as he carried his burden back to the kitchen. From a cupboard Bilbo snatched the small sachet of leaves that had more than once been his best friend after a particularly festive evening.

By the time Glóin painstakingly hobbled into the kitchen, Bilbo had the kettle boiling and a pan full of sausages trailing enticing – at least for those who weren’t suffering from a hangover – smells in Bag End’s halls.

“You hobbits have strong drinks,” the dwarf groaned, collapsing on a chair and slamming his bearded chin down on the table. “Never would have thought.”

“Well, I would have warned you but I have the feeling I would only have reaped laughter as payment,” Bilbo smirked, snatching the kettle from the fire and cautiously pouring a cup of tea. The taste would be bitter, he knew, but it would help. He pushed the steaming cup in front of Glóin. “Here, drink up. It tastes like macerated socks but on my prized tomatoes I swear that it will do you a world of good.”

Glóin eyed the mug with mistrust and an experimental sniff only brought a grimace on his face. “Not sure I don’t prefer Bombur’s snores over this.”

“Trust me, you grouchy thing,” Bilbo scolded affectionately, giving the thick dwarven skull a gentle tap of his wooden spoon before he turned back to his frying pan. “I reckon it’s too soon for a few juicy sausages and fried eggs?”

The tortured moan that met his question had Bilbo in chuckles.

He made small talk as Glóin took tentative sips, reaping short and blurred answers. The dwarves, he gathered, had all enjoyed the wedding and the following party, even if most of them would definitely _not_ enjoy the morning to come. As for himself, Bilbo agreed that it could have turned out better; he could, for example, have indulged in a bit of a lay in with a handsome and pleasantly amorous King, had he learnt to be more forgiving – or had said King better control over his tongue. They would have risen in time for elevensies, maybe even lunch, not at the crack of dawn to make tea for hung-over dwarves.

Blast it, blast it all. Why wasn’t he born a Gamgee, or a Goodchild? They never seemed to quarrel with their spouses, whether the matter at hand was a serious one or not. Why was it that he could be so unsympathetic at times? He hadn’t even _wanted_ to listen to what Thorin had to say, could not bring himself to care. The prying gazes of a whole crowd had still been on him then, and Bilbo had only felt the urge to hide, hurry in Bag End and slam the…

“Door,” Glóin breathed.

Bilbo almost jumped out of his skin and whirled around, sausages and eggs the furthest thing from his mind. Had he… could it be that he had been speaking out loud?

“Excuse me?” he said, a tiny bit bewildered.

“Someone’s at the door,” the fire-bearded dwarf grunted, his voice muffled by the hand he was using to hold his head up.

Bilbo perked his ears; sure enough, after a little while, the sound of knocking came from the entrance hall.

“Oh, right, the door,” the hobbit mumbled, shaking his head at his own silliness. He deposited his spoon on the counter and took the pan off the fire, wiping his hands on a spare rag after this was done. “I’ll see who it is. In the meantime, drink your tea. And _no_ pouring it down the sink if you know what’s good for you,” he added seriously when Glóin glowered down at his mug.

Leaving the dwarf with his nasty-smelling drink, Bilbo wandered into the parlor in the direction of the door. Apparently, someone had already found Thorin and brought the wandering monarch back; however he had not expected such an early visit. The Sun had not even fully risen yet.

As he made his way to the entrance hall, Bilbo began to think of excuses for his suitor’s wandering drives. He could not very well say that he had inherently dismissed Thorin for the night, this would make the both of them look bad. Could he blame his dwarf’s habits to get lost in the smallest of towns? Yes, yes that would work.

As he grabbed the knob, Bilbo paused. What if, as ludicrous as it sounded, Thorin had found his way back on his own? What if he had never left at all, and slept on the threshold until he deemed it decent to try knocking? Bilbo could very well open that door to find himself face to face with a ruffled, weary-eyed King and there was nothing saying that Bilbo would resist kissing the scruffiness from that stupid dwarf’s face.

That would not help his case. That would not help at all.

_Only one way to find out…_

Holding his breath, Bilbo opened the door.

On the threshold, hand poised to knock again, Bell mirrored his surprised expression. “Oh, Bilbo. Good morning. Am I waking you?”

“Not at all, I’ve been awake for some time now,” he reassured her. “How can I help you?”

“To be honest, I’m not the one who needs help.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow in puzzlement, but when his neighbour took a small step back he realized that she had not come alone. Clutching at the fabric of her blue dress with tiny fists, Sam and Frodo had been all but hidden behind her skirts. The lads’ faces were partially concealed in the soft blue cloth but Bilbo could see that their eyes were a bit on the puffy side.

“What’s the matter, boys?” he asked gently. When no response came, Bilbo crouched to find himself eye-level with the younglings. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Sam and Frodo shook slightly and burrowed themselves further in Bell’s dress, muffling whimpers in the pregnant hobbit’s legs.

“They’ve been like this for more than an hour,” Bell sighed, stroking the boys’ soft hair with motherly affection. “They won’t tell me anything.”

“Well, that’s… odd, very odd,” Bilbo mumbled, still somewhat at a loss as to what Bell’s intentions were in bringing the children to Bag End. It was not in his habits to turn down friends in need, but he already had much on his mind. And he hadn’t even had first breakfast yet. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but… what do you want me to do about it?”

To his relief, Bell didn’t look offended; if anything, her face was one of concern. “I found them this morning hiding in the hedgerows when I opened the window. But last night, I had them sent on their way to Dudo’s under Mister Thorin’s superv-”

“He’s dead!” Frodo wailed suddenly, startling the two adults out of their clothes. “Mister Thorin’s dead and it’s all my fault! I’m sorry Uncle Bilbo, I’m sorry!”

Frodo shot forward, launching his entire weight at Bilbo and throwing his arms around the older hobbit’s neck. There, in the crook where neck met shoulder, the young one kept sobbing and blurting out “sorry!” between hiccups against his uncle’s skin.

Bilbo’s blood froze in his veins. Had Frodo really put “Thorin” and “dead” so close together in the same sentence? No, it couldn’t be.

“There, there, boy,” he soothed, his mind refusing to acknowledge that last sentence just yet. He focused on patting Frodo’s back as gently as he could. “What are you on about?”

It took a few seconds for Frodo to master his erratic sobs and when he did, fat tears could still be seen rolling down his chubby cheeks. “Mister Thorin, he-he walked us home last night, but we stopped b-because I wanted to see the fireflies and then… then…”

“What happened then, my lad?” Bilbo coaxed softly, his voice unfortunately betraying some level of trepidation. He tried not to cringe and shake an answer out of Frodo when the faunt’s hiccups resurfaced. “Frodo, what happened then?”

“T’was a wolf!” Sam half-sniffled, half-squeaked, still nestled in his mother’s dress. “A big, mean wolf. It tried to eat us but Mister Thorin pushed it away. He… he held it and shouted at us to run away s-so we ran…”

Bilbo’s entire body was overtaken by numbness, the end of Sam’s sentence lost on his ears as he took in this nasty piece of news. The savior of Erebor held onto Frodo even harder than the lad was clinging onto him, anchoring himself to that one solid reality lest he topped over and collapsed. He willed himself to take long, calming intakes of breath; Thorin had battled Orcs twice his size and width, surely a wolf didn’t compare.

“Calm down, boys,” he whispered, more to soothe his own heart than any other’s. “Thorin is a mighty dwarf. He is too strong to be defeated by a simple wolf.”

Who was he trying to convince? The boys, or his own fear-addled brain?

“Then why didn’t he come back?” Sam whimpered in-between sniffles. Bell’s hand had stilled in her son’s hair, a look of horror pasted across her features as she took in everything that was being said.

“He is probably lost somewhere between Overhill and Greenfields, since you two weren’t there to guide him,” Bilbo joked weakly, offering a smile that he knew had to look like the shadow of a particularly ugly grimace. “Now, tell me where you last saw…”

The halfling’s voice trailed off as his eyes looked past Frodo’s messy hair to rest on an object that had a boulder-sized stone dropping to the bottom of his stomach.

There, glinting quietly in the morning light, Orcrist was propped up against the wall.

Not strapped to Thorin’s belt or, as Bilbo had hoped, shoved down a hungry wolf’s throat.

“Frodo, I need you to tell me where this happened, now,” he said, sternly now, all traces of humor gone from his voice and thoughts.

“It was near Mister Seredic’s house, the one with the red door,” Frodo answered quietly, probably sensing the rising anguish in his uncle’s voice. “Where you first took me to see fireflies.”

In a heartbeat, wheels started turning in Bilbo’s head; in another, he was running.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re almost there!” Bilbo roared over his shoulder. “Speed up, Glóin!”

The red-haired dwarrow gave a pained groan but obediently quickened his strides. In other circumstances, Bilbo would certainly feel guilty about dragging a still somewhat hung-over Glóin outside without his boots or a proper, sober grasp on his surroundings. But his King was out there, somewhere, without a weapon and Bilbo knew the dwarf was acutely aware of the urgency of it all.

How could he not be, since he had been bodily pulled from the table he had been slouched atop, his braids pulled frantically and his ears filled with a certain hobbit’s alarmed shouts?

“Not much further, Glóin!” Bilbo yelled, air burning its way down to his lungs as he ran and small rocks digging hard between his toes. But he was past caring.

“I’m here, I’m here!” his dwarven companion panted. “We Dwarves are natural sprinters! Very dangerous over _short_ distances! Our lungs don’t allow-”

“Save your breath and run!”

Bilbo angrily wiped burning sweat from his eyes and rushed on, his lungs no more willing than dwarven ones to suffer from such prolonged exertion but he was left little choice on the matter. His heart was pushing every single one of his organs forward, ordering his feet to bear the burn of the road in silence, roaring at muscles to work faster, faster. All at once, Bilbo’s brain ached to know what kind of fate had befallen Thorin and recoiled at the mere thought that any harm might have come to his beloved suitor.

Ignorance was bliss. Ignorance was intolerable.

At long last, Seredic Took’s fanciful red door came into view, unleashing both a warm puff of hope in Bilbo’s heart and the coldest spike of dread. There, just below the garden, lied the patch of trees where so many of his best childhood memories lived and thrived. Had the very same place stood idly by as Thorin suffered and died?

Bilbo willed his stinging eyes to remain free of the tears he would doubtlessly shed later; whether they would be born from grief or relief he was not ready to know. Ignoring Seredic’s tentative greeting as he neared his front yard, Bilbo only managed a dismissive gesture with his hand before he tore between bushes, pushing his way in the narrow space separating Seredic’s garden from his neighbor’s.

Stray thorns scratched his skin and his messy hair more than once became entangled in wild branches, but Bilbo kept pushing forward. A groan behind him indicated that Glóin was on his heels, trying to manoeuver his greater bulk through the bushes and doing a poor, clumsy job of it. The thick greenery seemed to stretch for miles and miles and suddenly, it was gone.

For many years to come, the sight that greeted Bilbo would bring a chill to the warmest of nights.

The beast was the first noticeable detail one could not overlook if they happened by the small clearing, especially in a peaceful place such as the Shire. Huge and scruffy, it also displayed clear signs of starvation, if the jutting hipbones and visible ribs were any indication. The fur on most of the animal’s body was brown, although patches of grey ran along its paws and its enormous muzzle, giving away that the creature was not in its prime and had lived through a considerable number of winters already.

Bilbo would have been scared witless, had the animal not been lying lifelessly on its side and had the hobbit not encountered many of its kind on a perilous quest to save a kingdom.

For this was no wolf. Old and starved it may be, but Bilbo would be a fool not to recognize the massive form of a full-sized warg.

Or the prone unmistakeably dwarven body whose head and shoulders were firmly held in the beast’s deadly jaws.

Bilbo didn’t know exactly which part of his brain took charge then, but in the end he was glad it did. Set off by Glóin’s horrified gasp as the dwarf happened upon the scene, the hobbit shot forth and closed the distance that separated him from the gruesome ordeal in a few heated strides.

All at once, Bilbo longed to touch everything, to rip Thorin away from the warg’s fangs but he was also petrified by the fear to wound the dwarf further. A quick assessment of the situation established that at least one of the two creatures lying there on the ground was dead; the warg’s milky eyes were wide and unseeing, staring off into nothingness. But what of Thorin?

The King’s hands were covered in cuts and scrapes, a testimony that he had valiantly tried to fend off the wild creature attacking him. One of the appendages was thrown across Thorin’s stomach while the other was loosely tangled in the fur behind the warg’s ears. The dwarven tunic that had looked so fetching the previous evening was now in tatters, ripped and shredded by enormous claws to get to the tough skin underneath. A few cuts here and there indicated that the warg had been successful in some places, though none of those wounds appeared to be fatal.

The same could not be said about those huge jaws closed around Thorin’s head.

“Glóin, please,” Bilbo mumbled, a bead of cold sweat rolling down the slope of his back. “Help me with this…”

With trembling hands, hobbit and dwarf carefully pried the warg’s mouth open, slipping fingers in the space between gums and chops to move the fearsome jaws apart and earning thick gloves of drool and blood for their trouble. Once Bilbo felt that it was safe enough, he instructed Glóin to hold the maw open as he dropped to his knees and leaned in to retrieve Thorin.

His poor heart skipped a beat or two when he took in the state of his future husband. The dwarf was a complete fright, slobber and blood battling for dominance on his unconscious features. Tiny red rivulets were trickling through his beard and down his neck from small gashes where fangs had pierced skin. The movement required to free Thorin from the warg had caused fresh blood to ooze from the teeth marks along his temple and chin.

His throat, however, remained free of wounds and Bilbo allowed hope to bloom in his heart. The warg had probably been too old to land a proper, fatal bite on the King, for which the hobbit was grateful. But there still was a dangerous amount of substantial wounds scattered across his suitor’s body that Bilbo felt uncomfortable with. Aside from the split lip and extended bruising, Thorin’s foe had somehow managed to tear the dwarf’s metal clasp clean off his ear, leaving a straight open cut across the round shell that was slowly dribbling blood into Thorin’s hair.

When Glóin released the warg’s massive head, it flopped to the ground at a perplexing angle, the creature’s jaws opening awkwardly and its tongue slipping past its unmoving chops.

“Neck’s broken,” Glóin observed, all traces of drunken sluggishness gone from his voice. “Must have died on the spot.”

To be truthful, Bilbo didn’t care much about the beast’s ultimate fate or the circumstances in which it had met its end. The only thing that mattered, as he clumsily fumbled amidst blood and spit, was whether or not a pulse would meet his trembling fingertips.

Bilbo heaved a big sigh of relief when, at long last, a faint thump resonated in the crook of Thorin’s throat.

He lived.

“Glóin, can you carry him?” the hobbit asked quickly, startling the red-haired dwarf from his bewildered haze. “We need to bring him back to Bag End immediately. If you can’t, I’ll go and fetch help-”

“Move aside, Master Baggins,” Glóin growled, visibly upset at the slightest implication that he might be lacking strength. “My King is no such heavy load that I cannot bear it.”

The dwarrow then proceeded to act on his words as he grabbed Thorin around the waist and hauled him up – not without some trouble or a few noises of discomfort – across his right shoulder, holding him in place with an arm around the waist and the other caging the monarch’s legs.

Though very un-kingly, this position would allow Glóin to make the walk back to Bag End with haste and spare him unnecessary effort. On another note, it also exposed the back of Thorin’s head; the mass of hair there was thick with blood, matted dark strands coming together in ugly clumps. It seemed the dwarf had a wound there as well, perhaps the one that had caused his unconsciousness.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right? I can get a pony-”

“Lead the way, I’ll take care of the rest,” Glóin answered gruffly, his tone thick with urgency and something akin to fear.

Bilbo did not find it in himself to reassure the fire-bearded dwarf.

 

* * *

 

 

They made their way back quickly enough, considering Thorin’s weight and the strain it put on Glóin’s shoulder. Still the dwarf walked as briskly as he could while supporting his King’s bulk and never issued the smallest grunt of protest – even though he had to stop twice to readjust his grip on Thorin.

All the while, Bilbo alternated between walking nervously ahead to lead the way and trailing behind to hold his suitor’s battered hand, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he stared at the unconscious dwarf’s limp body and its numerous injuries on full display.

None of this should have happened. Thorin should be in Bag End, preferably curled up in Bilbo’s own bed with a few rays of sunshine marking his frame instead of gashes. The only marks his weathered skin should sport should come from thorough kisses, not ruthless bites stolen in the thick of night.

This, all of this, was entirely Bilbo’s fault. And it was scorching his very soul.

Fortunately, they did not come across anyone – save for a bewildered Seredic still standing in his front yard, his pipe a hairsbreadth away from escaping his lips in his stupor – but Bilbo figured that they had the youth of the day to thank for that, more than sheer luck. Of course the drops of blood Thorin left in their wake would surely raise suspicions, not to mention that they would lead anyone out for an early stroll straight to Bag End, but there would be time to deal with those curious minds later.

Preferably, with Thorin cleared of any immediate danger.

As Bag End came into sight, so did the very tall, very furious dwarf standing by its green door, his thick arms crossed over his chest and a feral snarl gracing his bearded features. Dwalin’s eyes did not register anything other than pure reproach when they fell on Thorin’s unmoving form, not even the slightest hint of surprise.

Ha. Bell had told him, then.

“Why didn’t you wake me, halfling?” Dwalin growled heatedly as soon as they were within hearing range.

The word stung a little, but Bilbo did not avert his gaze. “That would have taken too much time. Glóin was already ready to go, I don’t see why I should have bothered to lose precious minutes trying to wake you.”

“I am his Captain, it’s my job to make sure he’s safe!” came the thundering bellow.

Dwalin promptly walked over and tried to wrestle Thorin from Glóin’s grasp, a fact that did not settle well with the red-haired fellow. “And a damn good job you did!” the Master of Coin snarled, tightening his hold on his King’s body. The scarred flesh about his chin turned an outraged scarlet. “If you’d kept an eye on him from the beginning I would not be carryin’ him like this!”

Dwalin froze and the shame that appeared to mix in with the anger in the warrior’s eyes told Bilbo that some part of Dwalin’s mind agreed with that accusation. He had failed his King.

“How dare you, you orc-faced-”

“As much as I enjoy the niceties,” Bilbo said loudly, squeezing Thorin’s limp hand to keep a leash on his temper which was getting shorter with each passing second, “there happens to be a dwarf here who needs medical attention, and who needs it _now_.” Sadly, there was no time to properly appreciate the look of surprise on his friends’ faces, but their stunned silence still satisfied Bilbo. “Thank you. Now, Dwalin, where’s Bell?”

“In the sitting room, with the little ones,” Dwalin answered gruffly. Obviously he was a bit put out, being ordered around by a hobbit. “Why?”

“Tell her to fetch her mother, Asphodel Goodchild, and bring her back here as quickly as she can. Asphodel is one of the best healers in the Shire, we’ll need her help. Better yet, ask Bell where she lives and hop on a pony, you’ll bring her back here faster. Oh, and… keep Frodo and Sam in the sitting room. They don’t need to see… well, anything.”

Dwalin’s eyes narrowed as he studied the hobbit, but he eventually nodded and tore himself from his King’s side to wander in Bag End and carry out Bilbo’s instructions – for which said hobbit was immensely grateful; he was not entirely certain his worry-addled mind would have kept up the bossy act for long had Dwalin chosen to object.

“Now, Glóin, follow me.”

Bilbo guided the dwarf and his lifeless charge through Bag End’s halls, catching bits of Dwalin’s baritone voice as he conversed with Bell. Soon, he pushed the master bedroom’s door open and stood aside as Glóin carefully manoeuvred Thorin inside.

“Lay him on the bed. Please,” he added quietly, mechanically, and watched with mounting concern as Glóin deposited Thorin as gently as he could on the mattress. The rush of the situation was beginning to wear off and, in its stead, dread was creeping around the edges of Bilbo’s better judgement.

“There,” the dwarrow said when he finally relinquished his hold on Thorin. His thick fingers started fidgeting, useless now since he was no longer carrying anything. “There… anything you need?”

“Could you go through our supplies and bring back bandages, gauzes, anything we could use to clean those wounds? This much we can do while Asphodel is on her way.”

“Of course…”

After one last, worried look in Thorin’s direction, Glóin walked out of the room.

As the door closed with a soft click, all pretense suddenly left Bilbo and he collapsed on the edge of the bed, sitting next to Thorin’s body. Reaching out with trembling fingers, he grabbed his dwarf’s left hand – the less damaged of the two – and pressed his face into the cool flesh of its palm.

“Why is it always you?” Bilbo whispered wistfully, gently rubbing his nose along calloused knuckles. He would not cry. Not yet, anyway. “I’m sorry, dearest. I am so sorry.”

Hobbit and dwarf remained like this, waiting for the tell-tale heavy footfalls that would signal Glóin’s return with medical supplies. For a few minutes, Bilbo did not try to do more than hold Thorin’s hand, for fear that he might jostle a wound and pull a fresh stream of blood from the King. But eventually he caved in and ran a hand down a bearded cheek, caressing the prickly skin with three of his knuckles and revelling in the warmth that met his touch.

Only to yelp when Thorin’s own hand shot up and grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip.

The dwarf had awoken with a start and clutched at the first thing that had encountered his line of sight. His blue eyes, wide and unfocused, darted around the room and his limbs began to trash around, as though he was still in the clearing fighting a beast twice his size.

“Shh, shh, Thorin!” Bilbo soothed, grasping the dwarf’s broad hands that were throwing blind punches around. “Thorin, you’re safe, you’re in Bag End, it’s all over now. The warg is dead, it’s over, calm down.”

It took a few seconds, but when Bilbo cupped Thorin’s face and his cobalt gaze shifted to meet the hobbit’s, the King calmed down somewhat. “Bilbo?” he croaked around a sore throat, voice rough from misuse and powerful jaws crushing his windpipe.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bilbo nodded, rubbing circles into Thorin’s cheeks with his thumbs and offering what he hoped looked like a loving smile. “You are safe now. Glóin and I found you and brought you back to Bag End. We’ll look after you, no need to wriggle like this, dearest.”

Those whispered words seemed to put Thorin’s mind at ease and his gasps simmered down to labored breathing. Bilbo gave the wounded dwarf a few minutes to take in his surroundings and, surely, the muscles under his hands soon relaxed.

Thorin’s eyelids dropped as he leaned back against a pillow and Bilbo tried not to cringe too much as he thought of the bloody smears and tracks of drool he would have to deal with later. Instead, he patted Thorin’s left hand reassuringly, pasting a smile on his face.

Thorin muttered something under his breath but it was lost on Bilbo.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, leaning forward over the dwarf’s chest and supporting his weight with his free hand.

“I’ve had it… with wargs trying to… eat me.”

As Thorin passed out once more, Bilbo finally allowed one single tear to roll down his cheek and a bouquet of relieved chuckles escaped him.


	24. Dangerous Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saw the trailer for BotFA. Felt like curling up in a corner. Ended up writing a fluffy chapter instead. 
> 
> Oh well, everyone deals with the pain however they can.

“Unfortunately, I do not remember much,” Thorin admitted hoarsely, his teeth firmly ground together as a grey-haired hobbit dabbed at his chest with a cloth. Bilbo guessed it wasn’t only water wetting the fabric and reached out on impulse to squeeze Thorin’s bare shoulder.

It had taken some time and a few words of coaxing from Bilbo, but the King had caved in and allowed Asphodel Goodchild to cut through his relatively new – but already ruined anyway – tunic, tossing the shreds aside to get to his covered wounds. All of which were only as scattered as they were ugly; most of them were semi-deep punctures from an old warg’s fangs. They presented ragged edges and, occasionally, a pointed tooth could be seen peeking out from one of the bloody cradles. The old beast’s teeth had not been very firmly imbedded in its jaws, as it appeared.

Asphodel had not asked a single question. From the moment she had been shown to the master bedroom by a fidgeting Dwalin, she had been set on healing Thorin’s wounds as best as she knew how. Her reservations, if she had any, were never voiced out loud. Whether she did not mind tending to a dwarf or she was just good at keeping quiet about it, Bilbo didn’t know, but he was glad for it.

“Not even the moment you were attacked?” Bilbo asked to distract Thorin from the seemingly stinging solution being dabbed at his stomach – and Asphodel’s muttered cursing about Dwarves and their annoyingly hairy chests.

“I heard something, in the surrounding bushes, that reminded me of cracking twigs. I thought it was only a rabbit or a fox, so light it was, but then… that beast leaped from the edge of the wood.” Thorin shifted his head on the pillow, searching for a position that would not jostle the wound at the back of his skull. “It meant to attack the young ones. I… I just ran and grabbed the beast, shouting at Frodo and Samwise to run.” Then something seemed to occur to Thorin and his blue eyes widened slightly, his head snapping up to meet Bilbo’s gaze. “Are they safe? Did somebody find them?”

“Peace, Thorin,” the hobbit said softly, bringing one hand up to brush his fingertips over one bruised cheekbone. “Frodo and Sam are quite all right. They are with Bell right now, unharmed and only a little bit frightened, which I reckon is quite normal behavior after an encounter with a warg. All thanks to your protection.”

With a sigh of relief, Thorin sagged back against the pillows, his eyelids dropping halfway down as the worried lines on his forehead eased. “Good. Good,” he breathed.

“What happened next?” Bilbo inquired gently, brushing back raven strands that had fallen across Thorin’s face with his sudden movement.

“I am unsure… My head hit the ground soon after, I suppose.” Thorin winced as a particularly vigorous dab of cloth assaulted his upper chest. Thankfully, he didn’t lash out at the elderly healer and simply took a few calming breaths trough his nose. “I must have passed out.”

“We found the warg dead, its neck was apparently broken. Have you… I mean, were you the one who…”

“Ha. Now that you mention it, I may have had some part in that beast’s fate. I seem to remember the feeling of weary bones yielding under my fingers.”

“You… snapped its neck? While it was biting your head?”

“It would appear so.”

Well… it _had_ been an old warg, after all. The grey hair and jutting hipbones clearly indicated that the animal had many years under his pelt, with no fat or excessive muscle left to speak of. And Thorin’s hands were certainly broad and strong, but still…

A pained hiss brought Bilbo’s attention back to the matter at hand; namely, Asphodel trying to tilt Thorin’s head back and, at the same time, being introduced to dwarven stubbornness.

“You have gashes along and under your jawline,” the hobbit explained when she figured out her strength was no match to Thorin’s, serious injuries or not. “If you don’t expose them, I can’t treat them, simple as that.”

She only reaped a half-hearted grunt, and Thorin did not budge. Asphodel’s huff of annoyance was understandable, however Bilbo should have expected that his suitor would have trouble exposing his throat, the most vulnerable part of his body, to a stranger without putting up a fight. No matter how old and harmless that stranger happened to be.

“It’s already hard enough as it is with all that hair in the way,” she rambled on, poking at Thorin’s chin with something akin to scorn, the kind Bilbo had seen on those geezers’ faces when he had been caught climbing apple trees as a child. “Not easy to see the extent of any damage with that beard. I’ll just have to shave some-”

“ _No_!”

The simple yet fiercely-uttered word made Asphodel back away in surprise, and Bilbo cringed when he realized he had shouted it at the same time Thorin did. It would not do to scare off the only reliable healer this side of the Shire, riding off to Bree so soon after their last trip there wasn’t an option Bilbo fancied.

“Those scratches don’t look nearly as bad as the ones on his stomach,” Bilbo mused, gingerly picking up a strip of cloth from where it had been laid out on the bed. “Maybe I could clean them, while you stitch that gash along the ribs? This way you’d be home in time for second breakfast.”

Asphodel’s eyes narrowed at him and Bilbo knew the old lady was itching to bite back some comment, but she mercifully refrained. She nodded curtly and started rummaging through her small bag for a needle, muttering chosen words under her breath that Bilbo did not particularly care to listen to.

He was too enraptured by the thankful and loving glint in Thorin’s blue eyes, anyway.

Willing himself not to blush like a silly tween, and reminding himself that he was still supposed to be at least a tiny bit angry with his lump of a suitor, Bilbo gently pushed the dwarf’s chin up to bare the soft – and heavily punctured – skin of Thorin’s throat. As the first touch of cloth on flesh made the broader male twitch with discomfort, Bilbo was reminded of that night by the river, months ago, when he had first been allowed access to this part of Thorin’s anatomy. What had once felt awkward and forced was now natural, freely-granted by the King whose eyes even closed slowly in an attempt to relax.

Only to open wide again as a sudden yelp clawed its way out of Thorin’s throat.

“Must have scratched the bone,” Asphodel muttered to herself, pulling her needle as well as a length of dark thread from the dwarf’s flesh. “Hard to puncture, that skin, and no mistake. One would think you have scales hidden under all that hair.”

“Well, he does have a fondness for shiny things and he has been known to spit fire on a few select occasions,” Bilbo said briskly before Thorin could snap something at the old healer. “But I assure you, he’s no drake, so please be as careful as possible.”

The outraged look on Thorin’s face turned grateful once more and he gave Bilbo the tiniest nod. He had never been overly fond of stitches, Bilbo knew, though the offer of poppy tears – a suspiciously white liquid Oin always seemed to be carrying around – had been turned down several times during their quest by the wounded King. Harvested from poppy seed pods, the thick and bitter-smelling substance could keep even the worst pain at bay. Or so Oin claimed.

Thorin had always strongly disliked the stuff, saying that it made him sluggish and dizzy. He would rather withstand the pain than allow for control to slip through his fingers, even momentarily. Days prior, he had told Bilbo about the only time he had allowed the foul beverage past his lips.

“It was still that same accident, with the hammer,” Thorin had said in hushed tones, his back resting against a large tree as he watched over his sleeping nephews. It had been their first night in the wild on their way back from Bree. “I was young and still unaccustomed to such pain. I am… quite ashamed to say that half of Dunland could hear my howls that night. The healers forced a glass of poppy tears down my throat and I passed out. When I woke up, two of my toes were gone.”

“Well, in a sense it was for the best,” Bilbo had shrugged, idly throwing twigs into the roaring fire and watching them blacken. “If they were unsalvageable, at least you didn’t have to deal with the pain of having your toes removed.”

“In a sense, perhaps. Yet… what if they had cut off my entire foot? It bothers me to think that I would have been helpless to stop it. Shattered as they might have been, those toes were mine, as so was the decision to get rid of them. The fact that the choice had been taken from my hands… it frightened me.”

Bilbo had only nodded and scooted over to snuggle into Thorin’s side, his mind and eyes heavy with sleep.

Asphodel was thankfully very skilled at stitching and soon the unpleasant ordeal was over. Thorin’s fingers released their white-knuckled grip on the sheets and the lines on his brow smoothed out. Bilbo quickly swiped at the thin layer of sweat gathering on the dwarf’s forehead.

“He needs rest, lots of it,” Asphodel stated, her tone gentle but commanding as she tied the last bandage around Thorin’s midsection. “I’ve cleaned away all traces of infection but only the Green Lady knows what had been festering in that beast’s mouth. Sleep, food and chamomile tea to ease the pain, he’s not to leave this bed for a week.”

Bilbo nodded; it would be pointless, of course, to explain how it would take a much closer encounter with death to keep Thorin abed for more than two days and that Asphodel’s ‘patient’ would probably be staggering about first thing next morning, complaining about his empty stomach.

So he kept quiet, and renewed his thanks as he led the older hobbit to the door. Thorin was too drowsy and pain-addled to do much more than nod his thanks before his eyelids slid closed and he nodded off.

Quietly, Bilbo closed the bedroom door after them, heaving a sigh. “Thank you,” he muttered in Asphodel’s general direction for maybe the tenth time that morning as he led her through his study and into the atrium. “And I know that he doesn’t show it well, but he is thankful, too. Or will be, at any rate, once he’s recovered,” he added in a mumble, racking one already tired hand through his mop of curls.

It wasn’t even past second breakfast, for Yavanna’s sake, and that dwarf already had him dead on his furry feet.

“What really attacked that dwarf, Baggins?”

Bilbo’s head snapped to his right to meet Asphodel’s chestnut gaze. The old lady’s eyes were not exactly accusing, but they weren’t especially friendly either.

“I told you,” he began slowly. “An old wolf, probably an outcast desperate to find food, you know how far they can go-”

“I know what a pack of wolves may do to get food, yes, but a lone wolf?” Her stare hardened. “Even I could scare a lone wolf, all the more if it’s an old one. Your friend’s wounds… whatever caused them was much larger, much deadlier than a simple wolf, young or old. A beast used to killing.”

Bilbo fought hard against his urge to swallow his saliva. Asphodel Goodchild was no fool, old as she was, but if word got around that a blood-thirsty warg had been seen roaming the outskirts of Hobbiton, leaving open the possibility of a whole pack of the foul creatures doing the same at the moment…

The thought of a single wolf was more often than not enough to make even a Took shiver. Bilbo dreaded the reactions the presence of wargs would enable. General panic was the most sensible guess, but since there was no proof that other dark beasts were lurking about it was also completely useless to mention it.

For now.

“Just a big wolf, really,” Bilbo insisted, and it was not technically a lie. “One more reason to keep kids from wandering into the woods past nightfall, I’m sure their parents will be grateful. Do you want one of the dwarves to escort you home? I can ask the lads, just give me one second to fetch them.”

“I am not so old that I don’t remember which way I came from,” Asphodel chided lightly, but still suspicion and doubt shadowed her gaze. “I will be fine. You watch over your friend, Bilbo Baggins, make sure he gets enough rest and drinks his tea. If anything happens, you know where to find me.”

With a pat of her not so frail hand on Bilbo’s forearm, Asphodel walked down the hall and out of Bag End, her grey curls bouncing with every step as she hummed an unknown tune.

Bilbo sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. Old folk.

The hobbit was about to turn around and check on Thorin one last time before migrating to the kitchen for a much-needed cup of tea and breakfast when a large shadow appeared at the door, blocking light. Surprise had the small hairs at the base of Bilbo’s skull stand on end, but then the figure closed the round door and the hobbit heaved a small sigh of relief upon sighting a familiar bald head.

“Is it done, then?” Bilbo asked quietly, his eyes travelling down to Dwalin’s heavy boots on impulse. He cringed at the mud clinging to the leather there and it didn’t take long to notice that the dwarf’s hands and forearms were even dirtier.

The warrior gave a gruff nod. “Aye. We dragged it far into the woods and buried it, nobody’ll come across it anytime soon.”

“Oh, good, good. Where’s Glóin?”

“Tendin’ to his pony. The warg’s stench scared her and she nicked her leg on a log. He should come in soon.” Dwalin took to scraping grime from under his fingernails, flicking specks of both dirt and blood to the floor, and Bilbo made a mental note to give the entrance hall a good scrubbing after everything settled down. “Thorin?”

“He’s resting, all patched up now,” the hobbit said, a weak smile pulling at his lips when a few lines disappeared from Dwalin’s brow.

It occurred to him then that perhaps the tall dwarf had been awoken only to be confronted with the sight of his wounded king and a command to go hide the corpse of a warg without even a proper breakfast in his belly and, quite possibly, while still suffering from the effects of the barrel of ale he had chugged at the wedding. Instantly, Bilbo regretted the harsh tone he had used upon meeting Dwalin at the door earlier and set to restoring the Baggins line’s reputation of perfect hosts.

“Come, I was about to make eggs and toast for second breakfast,” he invited amicably, beckoning Dwalin forth with a gesture of the hand. “I’ll even give you unbidden access to the cookie jar, just this once.”

This seemed to get Dwalin’s attention, as the warrior’s bushy eyebrows shot up to his non-existing hairline and he nodded, following Bilbo into the kitchen with a spring in his step that could only be described as restrained eagerness. Bungo’s son could not help but chuckle, walking to the table with his oversized puppy close on his heels.

Dwalin obediently sat down and waited, still and calm with the exception of a few glances down the hall where he knew the master bedroom was. Bilbo knew that eventually the dwarf’s concern about his King’s welfare would gain the upper hand and Dwalin would probably march over to Thorin’s side to stand guard. That was all very well, but he would not do it on an empty stomach, if Bilbo had any say in it.

When Glóin finally entered the kitchen, a handful of minutes later, he found a still very dirty Dwalin munching on a cookie and Bilbo humming in front of his stove, fried eggs sizzling in a great pan along with a few sausages. A bowl of porridge was waiting on a small tray, keeping company to a steaming cup of tea and a cookie that had found salvation from Dwalin’s hunger. Once the eggs were done, Bilbo planned to usher everyone in Bag End to breakfast and take the tray to Thorin for a quiet meal and, hopefully, a small conversation.

In spite of everything, Bilbo felt they still needed to talk about the previous night. Even though he did not feel any anger directed at Thorin anymore, his mind needed closure.

“Ah, Glóin,” Bilbo greeted with a smile that came much more easily than it had earlier. Cooking a nice breakfast for friends had never failed to lift his spirits. “Come in, come in, help yourself to a bowl of porridge if Dwalin’s left you any.” The hobbit chuckled when the accused dwarf grunted in annoyance. “There’s tea, there’s toast, and if you don’t care very much about your fingers you can try to wriggle the last cookies in the jar from Dwalin.”

Again, the bald dwarf growled and his hold on the glass jar became possessive, a clear threat to all who wished to steal the golden treats from him.

But Glóin did not seem interested. “Bilbo, ah, there’s something you should know…”

Puzzled by the dwarf’s tone, Bilbo turned around to let his eyes linger on the red-haired male’s figure for longer than the mere glance he had thrown moments before. Glóin, surprisingly, was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, exhibiting all the signs of a sheepish fauntling about to confess something.

A most unusual sight.

“What’s wrong? Is it Sapphire?” Bilbo asked, putting down his spatula and wiping his hand on a towel. Dwalin had made it sound as though the pony had only gotten a scratch, but then again, the dwarf had been known to minimize the seriousness of wounds – especially his own.

“No, she’s fine, just a small bruise… Bilbo, there are people outside, they-”

“Where is he, where is the dwarf?”

The loud call from the entrance hall had the three males almost jumping out of their skins. Glóin, may his beard turn green from shame, wandered further into the kitchen and stood behind – ‘beside’ he would later argue – Bilbo, nervously glancing in the general direction of the main door. Dwalin sat frozen, half-eaten cookie in hand and his beard full of crumbs and the bewildered look in his eyes clearly indicated that he would be no help, no matter who was to waltz in Bag End on this fine morning.

So when three familiar heads poked in the kitchen, surprise had Bilbo sputtering like a fool.

“A-aunt Mirabella?” he croaked after the wave of stupefaction subsided. His eyes switched from one hobbit to the next, widening when they rested on his cousin standing next to Mirabella. “Primula? What… what are you doing here?”

Mirabella Brandybuck shrugged and vaguely gestured to other two behind her. There was an odd glint in her eyes, one that was mirrored by Primula Baggins and Bell as well, though the third female in the small group appeared a little embarrassed. “Bell told us what happened last night, now where is he?”

“Where’s who?” Bilbo asked, blinking furiously as though things would suddenly begin to make sense.

“The dwarf!”

“As it turns out, there happens to be more than one Child of Aüle in this household,” Bilbo replied, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. Family or not, he was convinced it was bad form to march into somebody’s house and throw orders around. “You will have to be more specific.”

Mirabella rolled her eyes in a very Tookish fashion, tucking her graying red hair behind her ear. “The tall one with the dark hair! Thorin son of Whatshisname, son of Whoknows, the King who is apparently also your future husband!”

Bilbo ground his teeth, hard. Oh, they would talk.

“Thorin is sleeping, you can’t see him,” he said, offended enough that he dared to growl a bit at the people who still held some respect for him in Hobbiton. “No matter how pleasant, he is in no state to entertain any company today.”

“Poppycock,” his aunt bit back, and only then did Bilbo take note of the state she was in. Her hair, far from its normal plaited state, was dishevelled and flying freely about her face. Her eyes, staring from above the small circles that had always underlined them, spoke of urgency, surprise and… fear?

“I won’t let you see him,” Bilbo heard himself say, his gaze still nervously mapping out every detail on his aunt that looked out of place, from her wrinkled dress to her half-buckled belt. She seemed far too agitated and he was reluctant to have her and Thorin in the same room while the dwarf was still dizzy from his wounds.

“You forget that I was visiting Bag End well before your birth. I know where the bedrooms are!”

Then, in spite of one decade too many weighing on her shoulders, Mirabella tore through the kitchen and disappeared into the dining room, leaving two blinking dwarves and three befuddled hobbits in her wake. Her steps echoed in the atrium as she journeyed west, in the general direction of…

Realization painted Bilbo’s senses a vivid red. The master bedroom.

“Aunt Mira!” he called, taking off after the older hobbit with Primula and Bell hot on his heels.

“Bilbo, I am so sorry!” Bell said sheepishly, her strides not quite fast enough to carry her pregnant stomach to his level. “I was walking Frodo home, I had no idea, I promise!”

Bilbo longed to dismiss her apology and ask for more accurate explanations at the same time, but the sight of his aunt ducking through the open door of his study, and from there on the next logical step was the bedroom Thorin was currently dozing in.

An unwarranted gasp caught in his throat – for after all, how threatening could a female hobbit really be to a dwarf, even a wounded one? – and Bilbo hurried on, almost floating over the floor of his study rather than running across it and barrelling through the open door of his bedroom, a shout of warning quick on his lips.

The words died before they even made it past his windpipe, as the attack he had feared Thorin was about to be subjected to came into sight.

To his bewilderment, the only assault dealt on Thorin that day took the form of heavy, wet kisses being pressed to his bearded cheeks.

Little could the mighty King of Dwarves do, pinned to the bed by the – far from negligible – weight of a hobbit who was long past her youthful days as she thoroughly covered his bruised face with kisses. Mirabella’s hands, nimble and strong from tending to her garden since she was a sweet little fauntling, were on either side of the dwarf’s face, holding him in place as she bestowed her most dignified attention on his cheeks.

From where he stood, Bilbo could see the astonishment in Thorin’s wide blue eyes. He witnessed as it turned into a silence plea for help when the cobalt orbs found his own gaze, helpless and flabbergasted and just short of desperate. The inner battle Thorin was fighting was painfully obvious; unwilling as he was to hurt Mirabella, he was nonetheless rendered very uncomfortable by the hobbit’s actions, which were just as unfathomable as they were disconcerting.

Matters only took a turn for the worse when Primula pounced forward, the white ribbons of her cream-colored dress tailing her as she crossed the distance that separated her from the bed in a couple of strides. There, she clasped Thorin’s right hand in both of hers, effectively stopping it from flailing around and bringing it to her face to press her lips against worn, scraped knuckles.

It then abruptly dawned on Bilbo what the powerful, unknown glint that had taken residence in both his aunt’s and his cousin’s eyes exactly reflected: pure, white-hot gratitude.

Bilbo relaxed instantly and gave Bell a look. _You could have told me._

Bell shrugged one shoulder. _I never knew it would come to this._

“You saved my baby grandson!” Mirabella shouted, and to anyone who had never met a Took in their life, she would have sounded near hysterics. “You saved my little Frodo, Master Dwarf!”

“We won’t ever be able to repay you!” Primula added, her eyes alight with joy but clouded by tears.

Both females kept babbling on, showering praises and thanks all over Thorin who, now that he had better understanding about what he had woken up to, was trying to politely remove himself from the hobbits’ grasp and calm them down. All for naught, in the end, for every time the dwarf made to bring his arm back it was immediately snatched and cradled with renewed force, and when he opened his mouth his words were instantly drowned in a sea of heartfelt, quite vocal appreciation.

Now that any thought of danger were out of the way, Bilbo found the situation rather amusing. The spots of red that Primula and Mirabella had managed to bring on Thorin’s cheeks alone were worth it. He let the dwarf suffer for a bit and, after a handful of minutes, decided to call the assault off.

But Bell beat him to it. “You are suffocating him, he’s still wounded you know,” she pointed out.

Mirabella’s gaze, sweet and happy when it had been resting on Thorin’s face, turned murderous when it settled on Bell. “You don’t seem too overcome with gratitude, dear. Wasn’t your son Samwise with Frodo last night? Hasn’t Master Thorin risked his life to save him as well?”

“He did,” Bell nodded, crossing her arms over her pregnant belly and mirroring Mirabella’s fierce stare. “Mister Thorin has my thanks and everlasting gratitude, though I had planned to express them at a later date, and in a different way.”

“Why ever?”

“Well, for starters, I figured it would be more respectful to let him recover from his injuries first. Then, since I _actually_ already had a real conversation with the dwarves of Bag End, I know that they are not comfortable with physical interaction when it comes from complete strangers. Last, dear Mirabella, in case you have forgotten Mister Thorin happens to be a King.”

“A very skinny King!” Mirabella pursued, not phased in the least by Bell’s speech. While Primula had the decency to release Thorin’s hand and look sheepish, the older hobbit had no qualms about poking an inquisitive finger right in the middle of the dwarf’s stomach. “Why, there’s hardly any meat on those bones! Bilbo, don’t you ever feed him?”

“I was about to, but then you barged in,” the Dragonriddler grumbled, annoyed at the accusation but secretly enjoying Thorin’s indignant look.

“Well, you’ll have to try harder if you are to be a proper husband! Poor thing, look at him.” Mirabella ran a slightly wrinkled finger down the line of Thorin’s jaw and the King’s fists curled, tight and strained against the sheets, but before long the female gave his cheek a gentle pat. “I’ll bake you a pie every day from today, and we’ll see who’s skinny by the time I’m through with you, King or no.”

With that last promise – or was it a threat? – Mirabella hopped down the bed and walked out, making her way between a speechless Bilbo and a blinking Bell. Off to carry out her oath to make Thorin the fattest dwarf of Durin’s folk, doubtlessly. With a last grateful look and muttered thanks, Primula followed her mother, but not before she gave Bilbo’s hand a warm squeeze on her way out.

Soon, it was only Bilbo and Bell, staring at the thoroughly exhausted form of the dwarven King on the bed. Silence enveloped the room as its occupants struggled to find something to say in the face of such a quick yet overwhelming visit.

“Well,” Bilbo drawled after a while, “aren’t you just the lady killer?”

The tension in the room was lowered instantly. Bell chuckled and Thorin gave a half-hearted glare, adjusting his position on the bed so that his wounded head rested on a pillow. “That was… interesting to wake up to, to say the least,” he rasped, for lack of a better thing to say. He cleared his throat. “They are… nice ladies, I suppose.”

“They are grateful ladies,” Bilbo said as he came to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Thorin as he shifted into a more comfortable position. “Dreadfully dangerous things, those are.”

“I am sure.”

“Just to remind you, I’m still here,” Bell said, an amused smile on her face, which only grew when Thorin’s forehead creased with worry. “Oh, I’m not going to kiss you. As I said, you have my thanks and I will properly express my gratitude later.”

“This is unnecessary,” Thorin assured her, relieved that he would not have to withstand a second assault that morning. “I did what anyone would have done. I do not need to be thanked for exhibiting normal behavior.”

“So you say.” Bell’s smile turned sincere and she gave a little bow. “Nevertheless, you have saved my youngest son and I will eternally be in your debt. Now, I believe you were told to rest and I am keeping you from that. If you need anything,” and this was mainly for Bilbo’s ears, “be sure to ask me. I’ll be home all day.”

With a nod and a last, soft smile, Bell walked out of the bedroom, closing the door after her.

“I think you may have won a few hearts,” Bilbo commented lightly, clucking at the small trickle of blood running down the side of Thorin’s neck. Mirabella’s careless hands had managed to reopen the cut on the dwarf’s ear.

“I have little care for any heart other than yours,” Thorin answered gruffly, his voice hoarse and dry as a parched field in the middle of August.

The hurt tone made Bilbo sigh. Why did he always have to feel like the villain in this story? “I didn’t mean it like that, silly, and you know it. Now see here.” Bilbo reached out and gently pushed Thorin’s chin to the side, exposing his wounded ear. “You’re bleeding all over your neck, the cut is open again. I wonder why Asphodel didn’t put in a stitch or two there.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin growled lowly, unsettled at the mention of more stitches.

Bilbo cleaned and patched the cut as efficiently as he could, given his lack of medical skills and the morphological difficulties that came with bandaging an ear.

“There, all done,” he said when he was satisfied with himself. Though Oin would certainly pale upon sighting the jumbled mess of gauze covering Thorin’s ear, at least the bleeding had stopped and the wound was fairly protected. “Now hold still. I’ll check if this little ‘adventure’ pulled any stitch.”

Bilbo’s hands caught the edge of the largest bandage covering Thorin’s chest. However, before he could unwind it, strong fingers grabbed his wrists in a gentle grip.

“I am fine,” Thorin assured, his blue eyes shadowed by dizziness and something Bilbo couldn’t quite put his finger on. “I swear. There is no need to remove those bandages.”

Bilbo huffed and carefully removed his wrists from his suitor’s much larger hands. “I’ll be the judge of that, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, taking extra care to keep his tone gentle.

There would be a time and place for explanations and, Bilbo knew, with those would come resentment before forgiveness could settle in. His heart, soft and filled with nothing but warm affection for the King, had already forgiven Thorin; it was his mind, his thoughts that still demanded that the dwarf atone for his actions.

“Stop fussing,” Bilbo clucked when Thorin wriggled uncomfortably. “I’m just taking a peek and I’m covering everything back up, I promise.”

“Nothing has been damaged, this is pointless.”

“Then you have nothing to be worried about. Listen,” Bilbo sighed when Thorin’s arms kept getting in the way and preventing him from untying the white bandages, “if you can lie still for five minutes, there’s a reward for you at the end.”

Ah. That succeeded in capturing Thorin’s attention. Too bad Bilbo’s words had run ahead of his thoughts.

“What kind of reward?” the dwarf asked curiously, trying to conceal the greedy undertone his race was well known for.

“Now, there would be no fun in telling you,” Bilbo scoffed in what he hoped was a confident voice, giving Thorin’s chest a mock swat. “I guess you’ll just have to behave and find out.”

His dwarf gave him a strange look, but there was no mistaking the interested sparkle in the blue pools. When Bilbo next attempted to pull off the thick bandage wrapped around Thorin’s midsection, he met no resistance.

Fortunately, no further damage had been dealt to Thorin’s injuries. The stitches along his ribs were miraculously intact, the skin around them no more red and puffy than when Asphodel had treated the wound. Lower, the smaller gashes and minor cuts scattered across Thorin’s stomach were equally undisturbed, as none of them had started bleeding again. Even the slash near the dwarf’s bellybutton, whence one of the warg’s teeth had to be pulled out, looked fine.

Bilbo’s fingers diligently explored each cut, each bruise, testing the torn tissue around them as gently as he could while still maintaining enough pressure to detect any new trauma. All the while, Thorin obediently remained as still and silent as the stone legends would see him carved from. He bore Bilbo’s scrutiny with an ease certainly brought on by years of having to withstand Oin’s fussing.

Whether he had really accepted this ‘examination’ or he was merely curious as to what his reward would be – something that was still little more than a vague idea at the moment – Bilbo didn’t know, but he was grateful nonetheless.

Soon, when it became obvious that there were no additional injuries to be found, Bilbo’s touch began to stray. Ever since their night at the inn, the hobbit had not been given access to his suitor’s unclothed skin and he found that, however new and foreign the feeling still was, he had missed it dearly. His fingers travelled through the thick line of dark hair that stretched from Thorin’s chest to his navel, revelling in the softness there. With an almost inaudible sigh of appreciation, Bilbo greedily carded his fingers through the light pelt, enjoying the warmth and roughness of the skin hidden underneath.

Until his fingertips bumped against a line of raised flesh, right below Thorin’s ribcage.

Bilbo’s gaze dropped to linger on the thick, pink mark running from under Thorin’s left breast to just above his right hip. It was soft and vulnerable to the touch, not unlike the mushy belly of a hedgehog – an accurate comparison, too, since Thorin looked like he itched to curl up into a ball himself, regardless of his untold promise to be still.

“I could have lost you that day,” Bilbo whispered before he knew it.

By all accounts he should not let words escape his mind unbidden, but the sight of the still fresh scar had triggered a few memories that he had not cared to revisit for a while.

But remember Bilbo did, and all too well.

He remembered the blow that had almost split Thorin in two, and the horrible orcish mace that had almost gutted him. He remembered the screams of both Fíli and Kíli as their uncle went down, sword slipping from his limp grasp and knees hitting the muddy ground hard. He remembered the discarded armor, almost cleaved in half from the force of the blow and abandoned amidst the tents housing the wounded. Above all else, Bilbo remembered the heart-wrenching shouts of healers as they struggled to peel the chainmail from Thorin’s body without tearing his intestines apart.

All of these memories, Bilbo would take to the grave, along with the relief that the injury, no matter how dire, had not been fatal.

A large hand, rough and battered from decades of excessive use yet incredibly tender, wrapped itself around Bilbo’s fingers and squeezed, effectively stilling them. He had not even realized he was trembling.

“But you haven’t,” Thorin said, and though his voice was hoarse and veiled it carried a warmth that acted like a soothing balm on Bilbo’s tormented heart. “I am still here, with you, and Mahal willing I will be for decades to come.” The whiskery, tired smile on the King’s lips brought a fresh wave of affection over Bilbo. “You will not be rid of this dwarf so easily, Master Baggins, it is high time you came to terms with it.”

Halfway between a chuckle and a strangled sob, the sound made Bilbo choke on his own breath. How could he even have thought for one single, ridiculous second that he could stay angry at that silly dwarf for longer than a few hours?

They spent the better part of the next five minutes simply staring at one another, hazelnut meeting deep blue over mismatched joined hands. Even when Bilbo let go of his suitor to rewrap the bandages around his chest, he could feel the comforting weight of Thorin’s gaze on him, mapping him out. Truth be told, it was quite pleasant, to share a few moments of companionable silence.

“There, now you’re pretty again,” Bilbo said when he tied the last of the gauze around Thorin’s shoulder. He gave the broad ribcage a gentle pat. “Maybe you should drink some tea and eat something before you nap again, don’t you think?” The hobbit rose to his overgrown feet, stretching his back and wincing a bit when it gave a small pop. “Back in a jiffy.”

As Bilbo turned around to leave, Thorin’s hand shot up and grasped his, effectively halting his momentum.

“I believe you made mention of something,” the not-so-innocent dwarf rasped and, dear Yavanna, here was the kicked puppy look that Kíli favored. “Something you would provide, should I behave… I did behave, did I not?”

Curse those dwarven brains. They never forgot anything whenever the words ‘gold’, ‘revenge’ or ‘reward’ were involved.

Bilbo made a show of rolling his eyes and releasing a great sigh. “Very well, I suppose you deserve your reward then, since you’ve been such a good boy.”

When Bilbo’s lips met Thorin’s for a soft, loving kiss, he was not surprised by the coppery taste. He had long since learned what Thorin’s blood tasted like and accepted that he would sample it more times than he liked in the future.

Bilbo tried to convince himself that, at least, his King’s kisses tasted of life.

  


	25. Of Unwanted Visitors

 

It started out innocently enough, really.

A sesame cake, golden and still warm from the oven, had been waiting on Bag End’s threshold when Bilbo had stepped out to see to the ponies. He had spotted it half a second before he had almost kicked it and sent it flying down the stone steps. How strange. Then again, Mirabella _had_ promised that baked goods were to be expected from her for the days to come; Bilbo had simply not thought that she would start right away.

And so he had shrugged and brought the cake inside for elevensies. Only one small portion actually made it to Thorin’s bedside, though, since he was stopped along the way by six gluttons in dwarf skins. However, the claws of slumber were having such a firm grasp on their King that he hadn’t minded.

Then, right before lunch, Fíli and Kíli went for a short walk only to come back with a large basket of fruit and sweet-smelling cheese. Around a mouthful, they claimed to have found the basket sitting before the door upon their return and that – the deceiving rascals – they had barely touched it; the missing apples had been given to the ponies as a treat. There had been no note in the basket, no name connected to the gift.

Foolishly, Bilbo had figured that maybe this was how his neighbors had chosen to apologize. Harsh as they had been, Thorin’s words from the night before had been true. Nobody in Hobbiton had had the full story of what the one they called ‘Mad Baggins’ had been up to, on his journey to the Eastern Reaches, and he was certain most of them referred to him as such because they felt it was the proper thing to do. Perhaps this basket was a big ‘We’re sorry’ note in itself.

The cheese was divided and eaten with delight. Not only because it tasted wonderful, but above all else because it came with the feeling that Bilbo had regained some level of respect from his kin, something he had given up on when he had strolled up Bagshot Row with seven dwarves tailing him. He only regretted that Thorin and his love for good cheese were still napping in the master bedroom.

By the time Glóin and Bofur were done with the dishes, two more baskets had found their way to Bag End’s door. Inside there was food, of course – deliciously-crispy quiches with tiny bits of bacon peeking from under the golden surface, nestled in-between sausage rolls and apple turnovers which had Bombur’s eyes doubling in width – but also something that made Bilbo’s jaw slacken and his eyebrows shoot high on his forehead.

Crowns of flowers. One in each basket.

White carnation. _You are sweet and adorable. My love for you is pure._

Multi-colored gloxinia. _I loved you at first sight_.

Bilbo’s cheeks had suddenly grown very hot. Thankfully, the dwarves around him had been completely oblivious to his discomfort, for they had been far too engrossed in the other items the baskets contained and were very ignorant of the language of flowers. While the Children of Mahal fought over who would get to eat the turnovers – since there had only been four of the baked treats – Bilbo’s eyes had caught on the corner of a note. When Kíli had shouted that he was still growing and therefore needed more energy than ‘old, useless geezers’, Bilbo had taken advantage of the following mayhem to snatch the note and shove it into a pocket. He had quickly excused himself with only a warning that he’d better not find his kitchen damaged in any way when he came back.

Now, as he sat in his study with the tiny piece of paper unfolded, Bilbo could not quite believe his eyes.

_I hope you will find time for a little stroll and dinner. I will drop by this afternoon._

_C.B._

Last time he had held such a note had been months before his coming of age, when he had caught the fancy of a farm boy from Tuckborough, when his mother had taken him to visit their Took relatives. He had escaped the endless chattering of his aunts and great aunts in the middle of the afternoon, paper crumpled in his hand, and hurried to the farm on the outskirts of town. He had found the lad in the barn and… well, that certainly explained why he had to look twice whenever he came across a haystack.

He would have never thought he would one day receive another one.

As the first sounds of a dwarven brawl floated from the kitchen, Bilbo sat back in his chair and sighed. Truth be told, he was quite flattered – innocently so, of course; if a dangle several yards above solid ground with hands strangling him had not convinced him to give up on Thorin, then it was safe to assume that nothing short of death would – by the attention, however fruitless it would prove to be. Yet, no matter how much he secretly appreciated the kind thought, there was the problem of letting his faceless admirer down gently.

C.B. It could be any unmarried lass or lad from the Boffin or Bolger families, and that was only the more represented lines in Hobbiton – baring the Baggins clan, of course. Extended to the whole Shire, the message could come from a Brandybuck, a Burrow or even – Yavanna forbids – a Bracegirdle.

For a whole hour Bilbo paced in his study, mentally debating how he should go about rejecting someone’s advances while marvelling that, after cheating death a dozen times on his journey to Erebor, he still found such things to be of importance.

Twice, he poked his head through the door of the master bedroom to check on Thorin. His first peek found the dwarf to be asleep and he left him be; the second time around, however, Thorin awoke to a great coughing fit that had him sitting and clutching at his throat. Bilbo soothed him with soft words and even managed to sweet-talk an entire cup of camomile tea down the dwarf’s damaged throat. Soon, Thorin calmed down enough to mumble his thanks and drowsily nuzzle back into the pillow, his eyelids heavier than anvils.

Bilbo walked back to his study, empty cup in hand, and left the door open in case his suitor had need of him. Still lost in thoughts, he wandered into the kitchen to wash Thorin’s cup. There, he found Fíli and Kíli sitting by the window, each sharpening a dagger with mute vigor – which, Bilbo had come to learn, was one of the ways the brothers chose to sulk – while four adult dwarves were scarfing down apple turnovers at the table. The outcome of the previous fight was fairly obvious, then.

“Boys, no weapons in the kitchen,” Bilbo called over his shoulder, but he did scowl at the four other males, for good measure, and snatched two cinnamon rolls in passing. He was, after all, the one the whole basket had been gifted to.

He munched on the soft treats in the relative calm of his study, his ears strained for any sound of discomfort coming from the master bedroom. All the while, gears were still turning in his head, shaping sentences and pondering how well certain words would be received.

When the sound of knocking finally echoed in Bag End’s halls, Bilbo was ready.

“I’ve got it!” he cast as he trotted past the kitchen, and held back a sigh of relief when Dwalin sat back down. He had no need for any dwarf to stick his big, rude nose into this; he would take matters into his own hands and settle this by himself, thank you very much.

“Coming, coming!” he said a bit loudly when the poor soul on the other side of the door knocked once more. “Keep your pants on, you’re not shedding them anytime soon in this smial anyway,” he added to himself in a whisper. He chuckled, privately amused at his own cheek, and turned the doorknob.

A pretty, pleasantly plump hobbit was waiting on the other side, her long curly hair cascading in blonde waves across her shoulders and down her back.

Mentally, Bilbo grimaced. He had hoped for a lad; they were less prone to crying fits.

“Hello? How may I help you, miss?” he greeted, disguising his nervousness under a generous layer of politeness – though he knew that there was only so long he could play dumb and get away with it.

Surprisingly enough, the lass did not look very flustered or nervous herself. She actually seemed a bit… disappointed? “Is this where Bilbo Baggins lives?” she asked, her hands sitting together on the front of her white dress. “Is this Bag End?”

“Yes, you are correct,” Bilbo nodded.

She could not have seen more than three years past her coming of age. Her bright green eyes, sweet and hopeful, were looking at him in a way that almost had Bilbo stall for time some more. But well… Belladonna Took had raised no coward.

“Listen, I don’t-”

“Are the dwarves from the East staying here?” his visitor asked abruptly.

The question caught Bilbo off guard and sent his carefully planned words tumbling down the hill like a mountain of pebbles. “Y-yes, they are,” he sputtered. “What… what does that have to do with everything?”

His interlocutor’s eyes took on a confused look. “What do you mean?”

Doubt clawed at Bilbo’s better judgement; could it be that the reason the lass was here had nothing to do with romance at all? “Oh, nothing. Why are you here, may I ask?” he asked cautiously, tucking his well-prepared declination speech in a drawer at the back of his mind for later use.

 _That_ managed to bring bright pink spots on the nameless lass’ chubby cheeks. She fiddled with her dress, eyes cast downward, for a moment before she finally spoke again. “I-I heard in the market that there had been an accident, last night, and that a dwarf saved two kids from a wolf.”

Bilbo fought an annoyed huff. Trust Mirabella and Asphodel to babble and you won’t be disappointed. “It’s the truth,” he answered simply, shrugging.

“I was wondering if… well, can I see that dwarf? I believe he’s called Thorin, something like that.”

Bilbo’s first thought was that his dwarven suitor was once more in danger, the threat of hobbit gratitude hanging over his poor head, and an amused smile made the corners of his mouth twitch. The lass was probably one of Samwise’s aunts or cousins – who knew with the Gamgee family being so renowned for its huge litters – who meant to thank Thorin for his heroic deeds.

But then he took in the flustered, nervous stance she had adopted, and it suddenly dawned on him.

Romance _was_ on this young lady’s mind. It was merely not directed at Bilbo.

There was no mistaking the full-blooded blush and fidgeting hands, now, or even the outfit she had chosen to wear. That green dress was far too stretched around the hips, pulled taut to hint at the supple flesh hidden underneath, and the collar cut far too low – by the Green Mother, her cleavage would be on full display if she so much as bent to pick up an apple on a table.

Scandalous. Even more so considering dwarven standards.

“Yes, he does go by the name of Thorin,” Bilbo drawled dryly, storm gathering at the forefront of his mind. He could not tell if he felt more offended because the romantic attentions had not been meant for him, though they would have met a dead end anyway, or annoyed by the possibility that this lass may be trying to snatch Thorin away. “He is resting, at the moment. What business do you have with him?”

Surprise registered on the girl’s face at the change of tone but she quickly swept it away. “I wanted to invite him over for dinner, just down the Hill. I wondered if perhaps-”

“Yes, hm, I am sorry to interrupt,” Bilbo cut in, massaging the bridge of his nose as he fought a fresh wave of irritation, “but you wouldn’t happen to have been at my cousin Adelard Took’s wedding yesterday?”

Again, confusion, and a good deal of annoyance as well. “Actually, I was.”

“Then certainly, as all of Hobbiton did, you heard that Thorin and I are courting.”

How many shades of surprise could those green eyes exhibit, anyway?

“I had thought… well, after your fight last night, rumor has it that you called the courtship off and sent him packing. Not my own words, of course, but…”

Anger dug lines into Bilbo’s forehead and his hand twitched, still gripping the doorknob. He briefly realized that he had never invited his visitor in, as any proper son of Bungo Baggins would, and was suddenly glad for it. “So let me get this straight. You come here trying to start a courtship with somebody who, according to very unreliable sources which will be known as ‘rumors’, has only just been rejected by his suitor and had to face a wolf’s attack in the course of the same evening. Never mind the fact that he is a dwarf, staying in Hobbiton for a couple of weeks only and that he still somehow lives under the same roof as his supposed ex-intended. Have you really thought this through or have you spent too much time under the Sun?”

For a moment, the young lass was speechless. A myriad of emotions flashed behind her green eyes; embarrassment and disappointment ruled over all others, but Bilbo easily recognized the hint of anger as she spoke again. “Well, courting or not, he can still speak to whoever he wants, and I would like to see him.”

Oh, the nerve of her! Implying that she could… that Thorin might… that nerve!

“I’m afraid it’s not possible at the moment,” Bilbo replied icily, trying to keep his voice to a decent level lest he alerted the bunch of dwarves in his kitchen. “Thorin is wounded and needs rest. But rest assured that I will inform him of your… visit. Now, you’ll excuse me but I have things I must see to.”

“Tell him the invitation is still open. I am-”

“Getting back to minding your own business, absolutely. Good day to you.”

Bilbo wondered if there was, somewhere, a law forbidding people from slamming doors in their bothersome neighbors’ faces. The pure joy he felt at finally getting rid of the lass’ eager face certainly felt illegal. In a sinfully good way, too.

The blond-haired hobbit leaned his back against the round door and racked a hand down his face. What kind of rumors were being whispered in-between stalls at the market, now? What kind of foul talk was being spread about Mad Baggins and his temper, terminating a courtship with a perfectly fine fellow just because of a small fight?

That a hobbit lass could find Thorin attractive, Bilbo understood. Not only was the dwarf disgustingly handsome, he was also well-spoken, incredibly polite and charming enough when he put his mind to it. Add to that his dancing skills, his hearty appetite and his devotion to children – that little story with the ‘wolf’ certainly had a few ladies fanning themselves frantically – and you had the most perfect suitor a hobbit could ask for.

Bilbo suddenly froze; Bag End had received more than one gift that day. Could it be… that Thorin had stirred longing in more than a single lass’ heart?

With a pained groan, Bilbo unlatched himself from the door and walked over to the kitchen to pour himself a strong cup of tea.

If he was to spend all afternoon shooing ladies away, he could use the help.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Bilbo called the dwarves over for tea, two other girls had tried to negotiate their way to Thorin’s bedside.

He had dealt with the first one himself, but the second one had taken on such an awful, haughty tone when he had denied her access that he had let Dwalin take over. With absolutely no remorse whatsoever.

“Why are they so smitten with Uncle?” Fíli asked with a puzzled look, watching as Bilbo poured himself his fourth cup of tea of the afternoon. “I mean… why today all of the sudden? He’s not any different from the dwarf he was yesterday.”

“Except that he’s been snacked on by a warg again,” Kíli chirped, munching on a cinnamon roll with enough manners to make a mountain troll proud – loosely translated: none. Even the Goblin King must have known not to lick his fingers like this.

Bilbo sighed. “That’s precisely the problem. Hobbits have always had a deep-rooted fear of wolves, it was only worsened and consolidated after the Fell Winter. Living through an encounter with a wolf is already a very remarkable feat in itself, but to kill one… you’re likely to be looked at as a hero by all Shire folk.”

The dwarves around the table nodded solemnly and the air grew a bit thick with tension at the mention of the dreadful, dreadful event that had befallen the residents of Hobbiton. That is, until…

“What’s Fell Winter?” Kíli asked innocently, blinking a few times in surprise when his question brought forth a collective groan from his kin. “What?”

“Mahal’s beard, Kíli, did you actually go to those lessons with me or was I dreaming?” Fíli sighed at the lost look his brother shot him. “History of the Third Age, the chapter on the Shire. Remember?”

“Third Age, Third Age,” Kíli repeated, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he tapped a spoon against his sparsely-bearded chin thoughtfully. His eyes lit up suddenly. “History of the Third Age, yes! I remember now. Same time as weapon practise for those over fifty, you could see them from the window. There was that pretty brunette with the short sword and- ow!”

Fíli retrieved his hand from where it had cuffed his brother over the head. “Balin will be happy to know just how interested you were in his lessons,” he said with a disapproving frown. “Maybe I’ll speak with him when we return to Erebor. I’m sure he’ll take it upon himself to fix your lack of knowledge and force you to attend his future lectures with the youngsters.”

The look of pure horror on Kíli’s face almost measured up to the scandalized expression that had adorned Bungo’s face the day Bilbo had come home with a wriggling, mud-covered piglet in his arms.

Soon, however, the mortified look turned sly and Kíli snorted. “Like you’re a flawless fairy of perfection! If I remember well, you were quite distracted yourself in crafting classes, ogling that redhead’s rear-”

Thump! Fíli’s fist slammed down on the table with enough force to rattle the teacups. The blond-haired dwarf wore a murderous expression to match his snarl. “Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

“Boys, boys! There’s no need to shout!” Bilbo said a bit louder than he originally planned to, but this succeeded in nipping the impending quarrel in the bud. The brothers exchanged one last thunderous glare before they both looked away. “That’s a lot better, thank you. Now, Kíli,” the hobbit pursued as the youngest heir of Durin’s line turned his attention to him, “The Fell Winter happened about thirty years ago, back when I was a young lad in my early twenties. It had been a fairly regular year, with a beautiful spring and a summer of plenty. But then, winter strolled in, and with it everything froze and died. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such cold again in my life, not even in the icy waters of Laketown. In November, it began to snow, big fat snowflakes falling in great curtains and painting everything white. At first it was amusing; children building snow forts and having snow fights everywhere and the like. But months passed and still snow poured down from the skies, hindering the trade routes and turning our farms into useless barns. Our food stocks were running low and we all thought we were going to die of either hunger or cold and that it couldn’t get any worse; but then, the great white wolves came.

“One day, they crossed the frozen Brandywine River. Huge, fearsome things which were just as famished as we were, but unlike us they would not settle for carrots and potatoes. When we heard the Horn-call of Buckland, we didn’t know what to expect, as it had never been sounded before. We only knew that a threat was heading our way but we didn’t know what, or where. Many ran back home to take shelter but a good deal of hobbits waved it off as a childish prank, as the Horn was only to be used as a signal of extreme emergency, the kind that never happened in the Shire. Those were the first to die, soon to be followed by many others.”

A small shiver rolled down Bilbo’s spine as he remembered the howls at night, blood-freezing sounds that had him running to his parents’ bed at the age of twenty-one. The memory of the wild wolves’ growls and pants had almost begun to fade in his mind but all it took was a small conversation and he could see them again; feral, massive beasts the three of them, stationed right under his bedroom window. They had stayed there for days, only wandering away for a few hours to grab a bite to eat, so to speak.

But always they had returned, darkening his days, haunting his nights. Once in a while they would turn one blood-soaked muzzle in the direction of the window just as Bilbo was observing them. His dreams that night would be filled with sharp fangs and reddish drool, and in the morning he would convince his father to push another table against the door, just in case.

“That’s a much better story than when Balin’s the one telling it,” Kíli commented.

This earned him a scowl from his older brother who was, apparently, still fuming from earlier. “They were _lessons_ , you idiot, not bedtime stories to keep you entertained. Balin’s duty was to educate your sorry ass and teach you everything a dwarven prince should know, it’s sad to think that all he did was waste his time.”

Kíli visibly bristled, his fingers squeezing his cup so hard he could have shattered it. Before Bilbo could call the dispute off once more, the young dwarf sprang to his feet, knocking his chair a few feet behind him. “And what does it matter, whether I listen or not? Nobody gives a goblin’s ass about what I do or don’t! Everyone knows I’m just a spare heir anyway and I’m sick of you belittling me as though anything I do actually matters!”

Fíli’s eyes, wide and bewildered, were staring at his brother in mute incomprehension. This was getting out of hand. “Kíli, it’s not-”

“Don’t! Don’t try to deny it. Haven’t you noticed how Uncle kept allowing me to scout around on the journey but always had you stick close to his side?” Again, Fíli’s protest was cut short by a rude hand gesture from his brother. “I know I’m of little importance, that it will be you on the throne one day and that you’re the one Uncle’s putting all of his efforts in. That’s fine by me, I’ve accepted it. But don’t insult me by pretending that I’m worth more than a backup stash of royal blood to be used in case you go and get yourself killed!”

By the end of his tirade the young dwarf was positively seething, his fingertips white from his deadly grip on the table. Before anyone could speak and with one last scorching glare to make Thorin proud, Kíli whirled around and stormed out of the kitchen. His heavy steps echoed in the parlor for a while before the tell-tale creak of the front door opening was heard, quickly followed by the loud sound of that same door slamming close.

“How… what has just happened?” Bilbo whispered, almost afraid to rupture the thick veil of silence that had settled over the kitchen.

It was a relief to find that Fíli looked at least as flabbergasted as Bilbo felt. “I don’t know, I… I never thought he felt that way,” the young prince mumbled, gazing at the doorway his sibling had disappeared through.

For all he exhibited carelessness and playfulness all the time, Kíli was far from stupid, Bilbo mused. He must have known from a very young age that his contribution to the Line of Durin would be limited and probably would not go beyond having his name sewn on a few tapestries in Erebor. Second in line to the throne, he knew that any child Fíli may have would have an even greater right to rule than he would in a lifetime, even though he had fought and bled and almost died to reclaim the Mountain they now called home.

Those ponderings were very unfamiliar to Bilbo, yet he felt like he could understand the young dwarf.

The hobbit was about to speak and reassure Fíli, whose shoulders were looking far too tense with worry for Bilbo’s gentle heart, when the now unsurprising sound of knocking echoed down the entrance hall.

“Oh bother!” Bilbo growled, setting down his untouched tea cup on the table firmly. “This one’s mine, when I’m done with her she’ll wish _she_ was chosen to face a live dragon!”

A chorus of muffled chuckles accompanied Bilbo as he rose to his feet and marched to the door. Honestly, he hadn’t thought even the most persistent of hobbits would defile the sacred meal that was tea time! Oh, this lass’ ears would be full by the time he was done explaining just how silly he found her behavior to be, whoever she was.

Deciding she needed a fair warning, Bilbo grabbed the doorknob and spoke loudly. “Yes, Thorin is here, no you can’t see him! I think I’ve covered everything you needed to know! Now, if you’re still here when I open this door, let me tell you, you’re in for a-”

The words died in his throat when he finally yanked the door open and revealed who was standing on the other side.

There was a thing or two to be said about the Baggins family and its members’ ability to get all flustered at the most trivial things. However, the look of shock on Drogo’s face was completely uncalled for, even though Bilbo’s shouting had been quite fierce. While his wife Primula didn’t look as gobsmacked as her husband, there was something akin to uneasiness in the way she shifted from side to side, favoring this leg or that as she balanced a peeved Frodo’s weight on her hip.

“-surprise?” Bilbo finished in a whisper, breaking the spell around them as he shook his head. “Ah, I’m… I’m sorry, I thought it was somebody else at the door. We’ve been getting a few… unwanted visitors, this afternoon.”

Both of his cousins visibly relaxed. “We wouldn’t want to intrude,” Drogo began.

“Nonsense, nonsense.” Bilbo stepped aside to let them through. “Come in. There’s tea in the kitchen, you can join us if you’d like. When I left there were two or three helpings left but I can dish up more if those gluttons already wolfed them down.”

“Are Fíli and Kíli there?” Frodo asked hopefully as his mother set him down on the floor of the entrance hall.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile fondly as he closed the door. “Fíli is in the kitchen, yes, but Kíli went for a little stroll. He’ll return soon, though, I think,” he added when Frodo’s face fell a little.

The boy’s face brightened a bit and he gave a little nod. Before he could scamper off, however, his father’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t you have something to give to your uncle, Frodo?” Drogo asked, not unkindly but with one raised eyebrow.

The fauntling’s smile wavered and when he turned to Bilbo, he almost looked apologetic. “I… I went back where Mister Thorin was attacked last night,” he admitted quietly, “because this morning Mister Glóin said that Mister Thorin had lost something there.”

Frodo fished around in his little pocket, his nose scrunched up in concentration. When he finally retrieved his tiny fist, he turned it up and revealed its content to Bilbo whose eyes widened a bit in surprise.

There, nestled in the cradle of Frodo’s outstretched palm, Thorin’s ear clasp shone dully in the late afternoon sun.

It had been torn from the King’s ear in the scuffle, doubtlessly caught by the edge of a nasty fang or a vicious claw, leaving the shell almost cleaved in half. Bilbo had not thought about it much, Thorin’s health sitting so firmly at the forefront of his mind, and when he _had_ spared a moment to give it a thought he had believed it lost or, worse yet, swimming in warg stomach fluids.

But no, here it was, spotless and whole if not a bit worn by the years. Even the runes and round patterns carved down its length were free of dirt and dried blood, surprisingly.

“It was almost buried, someone must have walked on it,” Frodo muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as though he couldn’t decide if he ought to feel more sheepish – he had after all gone back to where a warg had been sighted – or proud that he had managed to recover the lost trinket.

Bilbo smiled at the boy’s uneasiness. He then noticed that Frodo was still holding the ear clasp out for the older hobbit to take. For a moment Bilbo considered picking it up and slipping it into his pocket; but when he reached out he carefully curled Frodo’s fingers around the piece of metal instead.

“I think Thorin will be very grateful, Frodo. I’ll take you to his side when I wake him for his tea, how does that sound?”

The fauntling briefly looked surprised but soon he smiled, pocketed the clasp and sauntered over in the direction of the kitchen. A chorus of gruff laughter and deep baritone chuckles vouched for the lad’s safe arrival in said room.

Bilbo shook his head with a small smile. “They are all very fond of Frodo, those lumps, almost as much as he is fond of them.”

He watched as Drogo and Primula exchanged a knowing gaze; no doubt his cousins had heard all about the dwarves and the silly antics they got up to with the kids.

“Yes, there’s no mistake about it,” Drogo nodded. When Bilbo made to turn away and join everyone in the kitchen, his Baggins cousin stopped him. “Before a much-appreciated tea, there’s something we would like to ask you.”

“Oh?” Bilbo diligently turned back around, his curiosity tickled. “All right, what is it then?”

“Before we tell you, please, do not feel obligated to say yes,” Primula said, concern plain in her blue eyes.

“We have to leave for a few days for Buckland,” Drogo began, obviously a bit nervous about whatever request he was about to make. “We… my father is not dealing with my mother’s death very well, we may have to spend the remainder of the summer here. But we need a few things from home and to let Prim’s family know where we are. I don’t want to leave my father for too long so we have to travel quickly and… well, if you would be willing, we would like to leave Frodo under your care while we’re away.”

The request took Bilbo off guard and he gazed at his cousins in mute surprise for a few heartbeats.

“It would only be for two days, three at most in case of bad weather,” Drogo pursued, probably mistaking Bilbo’s silence for reluctance. “I originally thought about asking Hamfast and Bell, since Sam is a good friend of Frodo’s, but they already have so many children on their hands and with the next little one on the way…”

“There’s nobody we trust more than you when it comes to our son, Bilbo,” Primula said softly, and if Bilbo’s mind wasn’t already made up, her kind words and gentle eyes would have done him in.

“Of course, we’ll all be delighted to have him for a few days,” Bilbo smiled. “Fíli and Kíli especially, I suspect. So, is there anything I should be warned about? Banned food, run away tendencies?”

Drogo laughed quietly, visibly relieved that Bilbo had agreed to watch over his son. “None of that, though the boy tends to wander if left unattended for too long and has a fondness for playing hide-and-seek but often ‘forgets’ to inform you that the game is on.” The younger hobbit wriggled a bit and Bilbo wondered for a second if his cousins’ feet were itching, before he saw the rucksack slide off Drogo’s back. “Here are a few clothes. You may think there’s a lot of it but believe me, that lad can find ways to come home drenched in mud easier than Lobelia manages to spread fake rumors. I also put a few of his toys in here, though with so many dwarves to play with I doubt he’ll need them.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo agreed with a chuckle. It was nice to see how his cousin had warmed to the company these last few days; it was such a far cry from the speechless and nervous Baggins that couldn’t stand in the same room as Dwalin without getting the sudden urge to flee. “Who needs rag dolls when you can have life-sized, bearded ones?”

“Still, don’t hesitate to punish him if he misbehaves,” Primula instructed, a stern frown not quite managing to break out on her gentle features. “He’s getting at that age when they try to test the limits and see how far they can go before they get scolded. He’s got a bit of a potty mouth these days, I suspect his little friends are to blame but don’t let him get away with it all the same.”

_More like threaten to wash Dwalin’s mouth with soap at the first curse word. Duly noted._

“I’ll keep an ear out,” Bilbo promised, “but frankly, I’m not worried. So far I could only see how you raised him to be a proper gentlehobbit. And anyway, you say you’ll only be gone for a couple of days?”

“Across the Brandywine and back, no longer than that.”

“Well then,” Bilbo grinned, accepting the rucksack from Drogo and swinging it over his own shoulder. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

 


	26. Memories Long Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saw BotFA. Still in denial, and here's the result. You might want to get ready for a bit of naughtiness next chapter, too, as I'm not done playing with the happy couple yet. 
> 
> What? The plot? I left it in my spare pants. I'll fetch it as soon as I can, promise.
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!

**Adad – Father**

**Nadad – Brother**

**Du bekâr! – To arms!**

**Âzyungal – Lover**

The pony is exhausted and the Sun is high in the sky when Thorin finally gets a clear sight of Khazad-dûm.

He is standing on a small hill, a handful of miles away from the halls that used to host his forefathers from Durin the First to Durin VI. What once was his line’s home now is little more than an infected nest crawling with foul vermin.

Thrór was the first one to suggest that they retake Khazad-dûm. The loss of Erebor is still fresh in his mind, Thorin knows, but he suspects his grandfather is more interested in the mithril veins down there in the dark pits than a safe haven for his people. The sickness isn’t quite gone yet, nor will it ever be completely erased, Thorin fears.

He busies his mind with an intense study of the dale ahead. So far the Main Gates seem uncannily devoid of orcs or goblins, their number only amounting to a dozen or two lurking by the majestic entrance. When they scatter and crawl back into the mines, however, Thorin knows from the high-pitched screeching that it won’t be long until every wicked soul in Khazad-dûm is aware that there is a massive cohort of Dwarves heading their way.

“Skittish as a bunch of rats, and twice as ugly,” a voice says to his left, a voice he recognizes instantly.

Frerin is sitting in his saddle tall and proud. He carries himself with the air of untold power that other often mistake for disguised smugness. He probably thinks the battle ahead is a mere formality but he is young still, the braids in his long mane of dark hair fewer than in Thorin’s. Yet, at the sweet age of forty-eight, he has already known more hardship than Thorin would have liked him to, and if each and every warrior was not so important today, Thorin would have gladly sent Frerin out of harm’s way to wait with Dís.

“Twice as dangerous as well,” Thorin mutters, tugging lightly on his reins when his pony leans in to headbutt Frerin’s. “Have you seen Grandfather?”

“He is down there with Adad,” his brother says with a motion of his still short-bearded chin. “They’re giving out instructions to the guards. I think Grandfather plans to split them up and send a small party to Dimrill Gate to invest the mines.”

“And why are you here instead of there, listening to the battle plans?” Thorin asks but his frown in not deeply set and all it takes to lift it is a boyish grin from Frerin.

“Wanted a few more moments with my big brother, is all,” he shrugs. “Who knows how this day may end?”

Frerin’s grin does a poor job of concealing the lad’s anxiety and suddenly Thorin remembers how young his brother is. This is no skirmish in the woods with a couple of stray goblins, or a run-in with a pack of wolves on the road. This is their first real battle and neither dwarf knows what to expect. Frerin was doing something Thorin felt too proud to do: seeking comfort with his family.

Thráin’s eldest child reaches out then, cupping the back of his brother’s head to bring their foreheads together. They must look quite awkward, leaning sideways in their saddles like this, but the relief Thorin feels when some tension eases from Frerin’s shoulders is worth it.

“Please do me a favor,” Thorin whispers, his nose bumping against his brother’s when he relaxes into the one-armed embrace. “Just for today, could you forget to be foolish and reckless?”

“Another normal day then,” Frerin chuckles, but while his tone is calm and confident his hands are trembling around his reins.

It is a testimony of how raw his normally composed brother’s nerves are when the lad starts at the sound of a dwarven war horn.

“They know we are here,” Thorin mutters and, briefly, his hand finds Frerin’s shoulder. “Do everything in your power to stay safe today, Nadad.”

Frerin’s clear blue – ‘baby-blue’, their mother used to say – eyes are veiled with apprehension when Thorin peers into them; but soon his brother steels himself and his trademark grin resurfaces. If it’s a bit strained around the edges, Thorin chooses not to notice. “You do the same. See you in the wounded’s tent, Nadad!”

A kick of his heels and Frerin takes off, galloping down the hill to join the archers. The bow slapping against his back in time with the pony’s strides is his favorite, Thorin notices. Belak, it is called, ‘strong one’ in loosely-translated Westron, crafted by Frerin himself from an oak branch in Dunland. He has never lost a fight with Belak at his side, but it is not strength that Thorin fears Frerin will lack today, not so much as luck.

As his brother reaches his position among the archers, Thorin shakes the ill foreboding from his mind. There are Orcs to be dealt with, he cannot allow his thoughts to stray.

All too soon, the scenery changes. Gone are the green hill and peaceful breeze, but he has no time to mourn them. Not when there are dark creatures launching themselves at his throat by the dozen.

Sweat prickles at his eyes as he takes advantage of a few seconds of respite to pant, his back pressed tightly against Dwalin’s in the heat of the fight. He has long since lost his pony to the orcs, poor beast, but he does not dwell on it much. Unlike the animal, he yet lives and therefore must fight to see another hour.

“Where’s everyone?” Thorin yells, cutting down a particularly skinny orc. He cringes at the hot trail the splash of black blood leaves across his face. “Why are we stranded like this?”

“All down by the main gate, as we should!” Dwalin shouts back, his massive axe coming down on yet another orc’s head and smashing it to pieces. His Mohawk, once clean and standing straight, is weighed down by mated blood and obscuring part of his eyesight. “Got side-tracked by those nasty fuckers on our way there!”

Despair fills Thorin’s heart when he sweeps his gaze around them. There are so many orcs surrounding them, so many enemies to cut down before they can hope to reach the safe haven of a massive cohort of dwarven warriors. How can he hope that he could achieve this, when fatigue is already bearing down so strongly on his shoulders?

He rests against his lifelong friend for a moment, trying to conjure up solutions and failing spectacularly. It is hard to think when his ears are filled with battle roars and high-pitched screeches of blood-thirsty orcs, and the shadows over his heart grow ever darker.

The spawn of evil all around senses his fear. They are biding their time, licking their cracked lips like feral beasts as they prepare to pounce, to slit throats, to back in the smells of freshly-spilled blood…

“ _Du bekâr!_ ”

The roar has Thorin and Dwalin freezing in surprise. Before they can even share a glance, a whole row of startled orcs is thrown into the air by a black blur. The sounds of shattering bones as the foul beings come in contact with the ground again is oddly satisfying, for all that it is sickening.

Thorin spends more time than he can afford blinking over this new development and when he does finally look up he cannot help but grin.

For it is Frerin he sees, smiling back at him through a copious layer of grime of black blood. His younger brother is sitting atop one great mountain ram, one of the few they had taken with them to carry their supplies to the Misty Mountains. The great black beast does not seem fazed by the blood coating its fur or the bits of gore clinging to its horns, though it does appear troubled by the battle going on.

“Need a ride?” Frerin asks, one hand holding onto a age-worn horn and the other already reaching down, his filthy and blistered palm outstretched for the dwarrows to take.

Thorin does not waste any time climbing atop the ram’s large back, nor does Dwalin. Once he is safely seated on the dark fur, Thorin wraps his free arm around his brother’s waist and holds on as he feels Dwalin settle behind him. He longs to properly express his gratitude but there is no time for that. There would be, later.

With one harsh command from Frerin the huge muscles under Thorin’s bottom are rolling and the ram takes off. Immediately Dwalin’s broad hand grabs onto Thorin’s chainmail; the larger dwarf is sitting on the beast’s rump, after all, and therefore the most likely rider to be thrown off by the brutal pace set by their mount.

Thorin has never ridden a mountain ram before. His dealings with the animals never went beyond feeding and, on a few occasions, grooming. Riding a mountain ram into battle is a bit like mounting a pony and at the same time the furthest thing from it; the height, for one, leaves Thorin dizzy for the first few seconds. The thick rolling muscles, the dense fur, the robust strides… everything in the animal speaks of wild strength and Thorin doubts – and quite pleasantly so – that anything could stop it from carrying the three of them to safety.

Or at least a safer spot in the thick of the scuffle.

“Grandfather and Father are down by the Main Gate!” Frerin shouts to cover the noises made by the crushed orcs as the ram tramples them. “They were looking for you! They are trying to breach their defence!”

“Through the Main Gate? That’s suicide, boy!” Dwalin yells, so close to Thorin’s ear that his gruff voice makes it ring unpleasantly. “All those bastards are down there, we’d be goin’ to our deaths!”

“I’m not the warlord here!” Frerin bites back, urging his mount to the left to avoid a deep, twisted crack in the ground. “Some would argue that I’m not even a warrior! But since I just saved both of your asses you might consider… _look out_!”

From the large rift in the ground an equally big hand finds its way out, clawing at boulders in an attempt to haul whatever enormous body it is attached to out in the open air. The blunt, cracked nails plow the earth mere feet away from the three riding dwarves and Thorin immediately identifies the grey leather-like skin as belonging to a-

“Troll!” Frerin screams, urging the ram forward with forceful kicks and barked Khuzdul to get away from the evil creature he recognized as well. Hopefully, they would be out of range before the giant could pull itself out completely.

Luck, Thorin mourns, is not on their side; for when the troll’s second hand comes out and down it does so inches away from the three riders. Spooked and thrown off balance by the powerful impact, their great ram rears up with a terrified choked noise.

Dwalin is the first to be cast from the animal’s back, and though Thorin is better seated he lacks the firm hold on the ram’s horns that Frerin has. Within moments he is tumbling to the ground with a startled yelp, hands grasping at empty air in hopes to get a grip on his brother; in one small corner of his mind, he is thankful that it is Dwalin’s leg he lands on, not his battle axe.

He finds his feet fairly quickly, sword at the ready to fend for his life, but with the troll springing from the ground the surroundings are mercifully devoid of orcs, though he wagers that will soon change.

He spots Frerin by an overturned rock that must be the size of a full-grown horse. His brother is desperately trying to calm his terrified mount. Thorin wants to shout a warning, to yell at his sibling to abandon the beast if need be and run. But the words die in his throat when, with one single swipe, the huge hand sends both Frerin and the black ram flying to the boulder where they crash and crumble to the ground.

It all happens so quickly that Thorin cannot do much more than stare in mute horror, mouth agape and mind blank with white-hot dread. The ram dies on the spot, the twisted neck a dead giveaway of the creature’s fate, and Frerin’s lifeless body lies beside it. He has gone still, impossibly so, and Thorin wonders if perhaps, perhaps his little brother is… but no, it does not bear thinking…

The weak movements of the younger dwarf as he tries to pull himself up ignites flames of hope in Thorin’s mortified heart.

“Frerin!” he roars and makes to charge. But something holds him back, an unknown force that he soon identifies as Dwalin’s broad hands on his shoulders.

“Orcs are closin’ in, Thorin, we have to go!” the tattooed dwarf bellows.

“I will not leave him!” he snarls back, fighting with all his might but his friend is too strong, always has been. “Let me go! Frerin!”

In spite of his efforts, his brother cannot push himself up and remains stranded on the ground. Even from where Thorin stands it is painfully obvious that Frerin’s legs are irremediably broken and that there is little the young archer can do other than crawling around.

On this battlefield, Frerin is as helpless as a newborn amongst wolves.

Again, Thorin tries to run forward, and again, Dwalin hauls him back with both arms. “Unhand me!” he seethes, bile rising up his throat from anger and despair as his sibling’s life hangs in the balance a stone’s throw away. “He needs me! He needs my help!”

“He’s lost, Thorin, he’s dead already!” Dwalin grunts, bodily dragging the prince back. “If you go there, you’re dead too!”

“I don’t care! Let me go!”

Dwalin doesn’t understand. He cannot. How could he? It is not his brother, his little baby brother lying there, bloodied and broken in the thickest of battles. It is not his own flesh and blood watching with terrified blue eyes as the massive troll lugs nearer and nearer, each fall of the huge feet on the ground another promise of painful, savage death.

The sight of the fearsome creature wakes bells of alarm in Thorin’s heart and the treacherous organ begins a frantic rhythm to try and burst free from the confinement of his ribcage. When it fails, its rage takes the form of desperate howls that climb their way up the column of Thorin’s throat.

No matter how much he claws and hits Dwalin’s arms, there is no getting rid of them. They anchor him where he stands and by all means he should look away but watching is all he can do.

And Mahal forgive him, he watches.

As Dwalin drags him back, grief and wrath take turns torturing his hear as the scene unfolds before his eyes. A new scream tears its way out when the troll raises one massive foot and Thorin can swear that it is blood he tastes coming from his raw throat. His fingernails dig into the hard bumps of Dwalin’s forearms as he tries, one last time, to free himself and run to his brother’s side.

But it is already too late.

Each slam of the troll’s foot down onto Frerin’s body is like a spear through Thorin’s chest.

“No! _No_! Frerin!” he half-roars, half-chokes. “Nadad! Dwalin release me!”

“It’s over, it’s all over now,” Dwalin growls as he shakes his head.

Thorin feels himself being cradled close to his friend’s chest and in another world, the gesture might have brought him comfort. But the only thing that surges within the mangled remains of his shattered heart is hatred.

“Why did you do this?” he barks, twisting around so that he can properly give Dwalin’s chest the beating the bigger dwarf deserves. “Why? I could have saved him! I could have saved my brother!”

“It’s over now, Thorin,” Dwalin answers, his voice unusually calm and composed. “Dearest you have to calm down.”

It should have struck Thorin as odd, his friend’s behavior and what he called him, but he is too blinded by rage and betrayal to care.

“He was my little brother! Why did you do this?”

Relentlessly, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes, he punches Dwalin’s chest; but something feels wrong. The flesh that meets his fist, even covered with armor, is softer than it ought to be. The iron plate yields far too easily to his pummeling and Dwalin’s growls soon turn into pained yelps.

“Thorin, please, you have to listen-”

“Shut up! How could you?”

“Thorin!”

 

* * *

 

 

“-could have saved him, you bastard!”

“Thorin, it’s over! I’m here!”

“Frerin! Frerin, forgive me!”

“Thorin, stop! You’re hurting me! _Thorin_!”

 _Lies_ , Thorin thought around a sluggish mind. He had seen his friend receive worse beatings than this, had even been on the dealing end of a few of them. Those punches, weakened by grief as they were, certainly did not hurt Dwalin beyond the potency of mosquito bites.

And yet Thorin could not quite shake the odd feeling that the armored chest beneath his knuckles was uncannily soft and gave way far too easily. The iron ought to dig into his fists, the sharp edges of the armor’s plates should be cutting his fingers and leave them coated with blood.

“Thorin, _please_! You have to wake up!”

_Wake up?_

Slowly, blearily, Thorin opened his eyes. Whereas he had expected to be blinded by the late afternoon Sun of Eastern Eriador, the dwarf was surprised to be greeted by a soothing semi-darkness.

This, all around him, was no raging battlefield.

A quick, half-lidded study of his direct surroundings revealed that the only light in the room – for this was a bedroom, he remembered now, a hobbit bedroom with heavenly-soft bedding – came from a few rays of sunlight pouring in from around drawn curtains, through a small window. To his right, a bedside table, with something looking like an empty mug sitting atop. To his left, a solid wall decorated with carvings he could not quite make out.

Beyond, he could not see.

Thorin brought a hand up to rub at his weary face, only to recoil immediately with a hiss of pain. His hands felt raw and torn as though he had been punching the ground for hours – and maybe what he was beginning to think of as a dream had not been one, in the end. A glance downward found his fingers covered with a dark layer of a thick, sticky substance. Blood, presumably; his own, too, if the stinging jolts in his knuckles were anything to go by.

Cool fingertips brushed his hair back from his sweaty forehead and Thorin looked up. A sluggish smile tugged at his lips when he recognized the concerned hazel orbs.

His âzyungal was the most beautiful creature to have ever graced the world with a presence. From the bouncy curls atop his head – which were only days away from reaching his shoulders, to Thorin’s delight – to the little button nose currently scrunched up in thoughts, Bilbo was a lovely sight to wake up to. One that Thorin sometimes could not believe he was allowed to behold on a daily basis. That he was permitted to cherish that little body, to hold it close and safe, that he was _wanted_ filled his stone-hard dwarven heart with warmth.

Eager to feel Bilbo’s skin against his own and forgetting for a moment that his hands were still covered with blood, Thorin reached out.

Only to cease all movement when his dear hobbit flinched and recoiled slightly, fear flashing across his features.

Thorin’s brow slowly slid into a confused frown. Still only half-awake, the dwarven King racked his memories for something he had done to warrant such a violent reaction but came up with nothing. He seemed to recall a minor disagreement, a heated exchange of words but nothing, nothing that could justify Bilbo’s sharp recoil.

All traces of drowsiness fled Thorin’s mind when his gaze slid down the length of Bilbo’s torso to rest upon the arm clutched protectively around the hobbit’s midsection.

It was not Dwalin he had been beating up, then.

A cold wave of horror wrapped itself snugly around Thorin’s heart as shame carved a hot trail down the back of his neck. Bilbo’s features had not been twisted in thoughts, far from it; it was pain that had the hobbit’s nose scrunched up and his jawline set. The punches had been meant for a sturdy dwarven chest, an armored one what’s more; Thorin had not held back in his dream and he had the feeling he hadn’t either in the real world. Except that his vengeful fists had met the soft flesh of Bilbo’s stomach instead of hard iron plates.

Thorin looked up into Bilbo’s eyes which promptly turned out to be a foolish mistake. For within the brown orbs lived glints of fright that Thorin had last seen all those months ago, in a barely-reclaimed Erebor, back when he was in the throes of gold lust and dangling Bilbo by the neck over the battlements. He had squeezed the poor hobbit’s throat so fiercely that it had taken weeks for the resulting bruising to fade completely.

As it doubtlessly would for the bruises that would soon be littering Bilbo’s pale chest.

Bile rose in Thorin’s throat at the thought and a pitiful noise, close to a mournful keen, escaped his lips. He was doomed, forever doomed to bring nothing but pain and fear to his One and the mere prospect sent his mind reeling with self-hatred and disgust. The King tried to talk, to beg for forgiveness but his throat closed around the sorrowful words and made him choke. He must have screamed himself hoarse in his sleep and no coherent sound managed to get past his windpipe.

When his third attempt to apologize failed, Thorin emitted a frustrated whine and fussed around – quite childishly so, he would later admit – on the bed, trying to roll onto his side to curl in on himself and shut himself out. He was stopped from completing the motion by a stabbing pain along his ribs and a gentle, warm hand on his shoulder.

“You’ll pull a stitch if you keep that up, you lump,” Bilbo mumbled. “I’m not fetching Asphodel half an hour from dinner to put it back in.”

The hobbit sounded a bit winded but his voice was not accusing nor was it resentful. Thorin chanced a peek and found the frightened gleam gone from his soulmate’s eyes, replaced by worry and anguish. The urge to speak, to seek forgiveness was back and Thorin tried to talk once more, only to dissolve into a massive coughing fit that had him sitting up and clutching at his chest immediately.

In-between hacking coughs that left his throat screaming in agony, Thorin was dimly aware of little hands grasping his shoulders and coaxing him back against the headboard. “There, there,” Bilbo whispered soothingly, and Thorin felt the bed dip under the hobbit’s weight when his One sat by him. “Easy. Here, drink this.”

A glass was carefully pressed into his hands and Thorin took advantage of a reprieve from coughing to take a few refreshing sips. Sugar had been added to the water and Thorin inwardly cringed at the strong sweetness that assaulted his tongue. But he bore the overwhelming taste, if only for the balm of coolness the drink brought to his raw throat.

As he tilted his head back down, light feather touches were deposited along his torn knuckles.

“You’ve hurt your hands, you silly thing. Now I have to bandage them all over again.”

Slowly, carefully, Bilbo unwound the gauze that was still clinging to Thorin’s hands, one patch of half-dried blood at a time. He took extra care not to further damage the tissue as he peeled the soiled bandage off, leaving Thorin to wonder where exactly the hobbit found enough dedication to look after the very appendages that had caused him pain with such tenderness. Did all Halflings possess as forgiving a heart as this one? Regardless of the answer to that question, the prospect only cemented Thorin’s beliefs that a bitter old dwarf like him did not deserve someone like Bilbo Baggins in his life.

“No need for that sour face, it’s no big deal really. I’ll have it fixed up quickly, just give me a second.”

The warm palms left Thorin’s skin and the tall dwarf mourned the loss of his intended’s touch. He heard more than he saw Bilbo leave the room, the round door creaking on its hinges when it was opened and left ajar. From the hall beyond poured soft light, warmth and the distant echoes of gruff voices and youthful laughter. In the darkness and relative coldness of his room, still shaken from his nightmare – or were they memories? – and sitting in a sweat-soaked bed, Thorin felt loneliness tug at his heart.

He wished he was out there, with them all; conversing with Dwalin, or smoking a bit of Old Toby – let Bilbo never know he had come to favor the spiced smoking weed of the Shire over his own blend from the Blue Mountains, his One’s hobbit pride did not need it – with his nephews. The urge overcame the King out of nowhere, and as thoughts of a damp elvish cell and weeks without any light, he shuddered.

Maybe he could talk Bilbo into letting him out of the room for a little while.

The mattress dipped gently when it gained a new hobbit weight. “Here you go. I added a bit of vinegar as well, so it may sting a little bit. Now hold out your hands, dearest.”

Dearest. How in Mahal’s good name… how could Bilbo even say that word again, let alone so soon after the newest injury to their shared trust?

Numbly, Thorin obeyed and held his hands out for his intended to take, which the hobbit did after a few more moments of thorough inspection. The first touch of warm wet cloth on knuckles brought forth a pained hiss from the dwarf and a soothing shush from the hobbit.

“Here, here. Just a swipe or two, promise, just enough to clean the cuts,” Bilbo whispered, his words a ghost of warm breath on Thorin’s hair and the King found himself unconsciously leaning forward, his forehead almost coming into contact with Bilbo’s shoulder. “I’ll wrap them up and then you’re free to go back to sleep.”

“No.”

The quiet word surprised both of them; not only because it had been little more than a croaked, tortured whisper spoken in a raspy tone of voice, but foremost because it had come from Thorin’s own mouth.

With an embarrassed groan, the dwarf pushed his head the rest of the way into Bilbo’s shoulder, burrowing in the sweet scent of tobacco and cinnamon. His hobbit had certainly been baking. For a moment he allowed himself to get lost in his loved one’s closeness, before the inevitable moment Bilbo would grow irritated with him and push him away. The smaller male would be well within his rights to do so, and Thorin would not object, but he could not be faulted for enjoying a sliver of the intimacy that once was theirs. He missed it too much.

No words could have properly described his surprise when, instead of an annoyed shove, Bilbo gave him a couple of warm chuckles and gentle fingers down the back of his head. “You sound like a bullfrog. Asphodel warned it might happen. Don’t try to talk too much.”

Relieved that Bilbo was not repulsed by the contact, Thorin could only nod and nuzzle further into the soft fabric of his hobbit’s white shirt. The hand at his nape was rubbing slow circles into his skin, wisely avoiding the torn flesh at the back of his skull and teasing at the edge of the bandages wrapped around his chest. One day was not a very long time to go without his intended’s touch, but Thorin found that he had unconsciously craved it nonetheless, if the pleased groan that easily slipped past his lips was any clue. He bit his lips and mentally cursed himself for sounding like a dwarfling in heat, but again Bilbo rewarded him with light laughter.

The waterfall of mirth soon turned into a tiny trickle, however, when Thorin nestled his nose against Bilbo’s stomach. “Thorin, ah, don’t… I… I have to bandage your hands again.”

The excuse was poorly voiced and only when Thorin felt the flesh under his cheek tense did he recall. Dream or no, he had been pummelling that very chest moments before.

Thorin was torn between attempting to offer words of apology again and scrambling away from his One, whom he never seemed to stop hurting in a way or another. As he was about to fling himself to the other end of the bed, a mad streak flashed across his mind and he dipped his head, mouthing kisses down the length of Bilbo’s torso as a wordless apology, his wounded hands fumbling for the hobbit’s in the semi-darkness.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, his beard catching on the buttons at the collar of Bilbo’s shirt. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Kings were not supposed to grovel or beg, his grandfather had taught him. But so great was Thorin’s shame that he would have gladly begged for Bilbo’s forgiveness for as long as it pleased his treasured one, kingly pride be damned. He was so sick of this, of besmirching all the work courting Bilbo had put the both of them through with his words and his actions. Their shared trust and progressing intimacy was a fragile, growing bud and all Thorin seemed to do with his stupid large hands these days was crush it into oblivion.

For the third time in less than ten minutes, Bilbo defied the odds and brushed a kiss on Thorin’s hair. “I forgive you, dearest. For this and… well, for everything, I guess.” The hope Thorin felt in his heart must have been reflected in his gaze, for Bilbo chuckled when he looked up. “Sometimes I forget that I am courting a brawny, ill-tempered dwarf, it is fortunate that you keep reminding me of this or else I might begin to believe that I’ll spend the rest of my days with an average, boring and ludicrously hairy hobbit.”

Thorin would have laughed, both at the joke and the relief that Bilbo did not hold any grudge about his mishap from the previous day – both at the wedding and on Bag End’s threshold, it hurt to even think about it – but his throat felt like tiny specks of glass were imbedded down its length. So the dwarven King settled for a wide grin and brought Bilbo’s knuckles to his lips for a heartfelt kiss. This time, when he gently leaned into Bilbo’s embrace, he was happy to feel arms sliding around his hunched frame.

They stayed like this for a few moments, but whether they were short or long Thorin had no idea. It could have been hours, for all he cared, but he would never tire of the rising of the small chest beneath his cheek or the fingers idly drawing patterns and symbols at the small of his back. He did, however, issue a protesting sound when Bilbo slowly broke from the embrace and tried to nestle back into the crook of the former burglar’s shoulder.

Childish, he knew. But he was so content to be back in Bilbo’s good books that he could not bring himself to care.

“None of that, now,” the hobbit tutted, tapping a finger on the tip of Thorin’s nose as he would a misbehaving pup. “You’re not the only dwarrow around here I have to look after. Let me just check on the stew and then I’ll be back, hopefully with something for you to eat if those gluttons you call kin haven’t raided my pantry again.”

This reminded Thorin of earlier thoughts, and the dwarf grabbed a fistful of Bilbo’s shirt, disregarding the jolt of pain the motion brought forth. “Come with you,” he rasped, and Mahal he had never realized how precious his voice was until he had been denied its normal use.

“Come with… Thorin, no. You have to rest. Great Gardens, you have been attacked by a warg. You nearly died!”

“Don’t care. Cold in ‘ere.”

Bilbo looked down at him with a puzzled frown. “Thorin, it’s blazing hot in here. We’re in the middle of summer and the Sun has yet to set. Are you feeling well? Have you been drinking your tea?”

Thorin batted at the hand that tried to feel his forehead. He was perfectly fine, minus the voice impairment. He only needed to get out of this room where boredom and isolation were his only mistresses, whereas he longed to share in the warmth of a collective meal at the dinner table – only for his kin’s sake, though, for he found he had little care for food at the moment.

Bilbo’s hand easily snaked past his sloppy guard and came to rest just below Thorin’s hairline. “Yavanna’s green hands, Thorin, you’re burning up!”

“’m fine. Just… don’t want to be alone.”

It had been years, decades even since the last time he had used his world-renowned kicked puppy eyes – or, as Dís liked to call them, two-faced goblin’s eyes – on anyone, and he was a bit out of practice, but he was in such a good mood that he was willing to try.

The look Bilbo graced him with for his trouble was sceptical at best. “I would repeat that you are unwell and should get as much bed rest as possible, but you would just wait until I walked out to get up and traipse about, wouldn’t you?”

Thorin offered a small, sheepish smile. That hobbit knew him well.

Bilbo sighed and shook his head, but there was no hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Honestly, Thorin. You would not know common sense if it danced around you naked juggling with three Arkenstones.” His suitor’s offended huff achieved to bring a full-fledged grin on Bilbo’s features. “Let me get your shirt.”


	27. Food and Cheer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still in denial about BoFA, and I wanted one last nice chapter before darker things happen. 
> 
> Melekith - Young hobbit  
> Kurdel - Heart (of all hearts)

As Thorin sat at the head of the table in the dining room, watching as Fíli relentlessly tried to add pepper and salt to the sausages Bilbo had left to fry in a pan, he briefly considered the consequences of returning to Erebor with only Kíli as his heir. ‘Returning’ might not even be a possibility, though, for if Dís arrived in the Shire only to find her eldest son brutally murdered by the hand of one very irate hobbit, she would hunt Thorin down and turn his skin into a bedside rug. After she had castrated and flayed him for all of Hobbiton to see, this went without saying.

Hundreds of halflings would be shocked for many generations to come.

And Kíli, perish the thought, would be King Under the Mountain.

So when his eldest nephew once rose from the table with a poorly-concealed handful of pepper and disappeared into the kitchen, Thorin could not help but wince.

“What in the name of… Fíli! I swear, if I see you _anywhere_ near that frying pan, so help me I will kick you straight into the Halls of Aulë!”

“But I only wanted to-”

“You’ll ruin the seasoning! Out of my kitchen, out! _Out_!”

“He’s never learnt when to give up, has he?” Dwalin chuckled deeply from his seat on Thorin’s left.

Balin would have had a good laugh or two if he had come to the Shire to see his great warrior of a brother sitting with a glass of apple juice in his hand and a small fauntling in his lap, both of them busy unleashing the dark power of their combined hunger on the defenceless cookie jar. What young Frodo lacked in terms of mouthful size, he certainly more than made up for in speed, and the poor jar was minutes away from complete devastation, clear as day.

The child was to stay with them for a few days, Thorin had gathered from both Dwalin and Bilbo, while his parents were away to take care of business. The prospect brought warmth to the dwarf’s heart; not only would Frodo’s youthful presence be a refreshing change to their everyday routine – it had been far too long since the last time he had held a young one in his arms – but the lad would need a bed to sleep in and Thorin would be delighted to give up his own, both for Frodo’s sake and for the less respectable opportunity to use it as an excuse to share Bilbo’s bed.

Killing two wargs with one blow.

The three of them were alone at the table. After Bilbo had helped Thorin walk from the master bedroom to the dining room – “No, no that’s where the bathroom is. Green Gardens, you really _do_ have a problem with directions, dear heart.” – and had him sit in a high-backed armchair at the head of the table, the hobbit had disappeared into the kitchen with Bombur to put the final touches to their dinner, not to be sighted since then.

Bofur and Glóin had gone to look after the ponies. The eight beasts had food aplenty, what with the Shire being so generously covered in a thick layer of lush grass, but they still required water and a bit of grooming – the rolling hills of Hobbiton had apparently awakened tendencies that had been long forgotten from their time in mountains, such as rolling about in the mud and getting their hair all tangled in bushes – every once in a while.

Where Kíli had gone off to, however, Thorin had no idea. When questioned, Fíli had only mumbled something about foolishness and a walk which purpose remained a tad obscure. His eldest nephew had not spoken another word about it since then; in fact, Thorin suspected that Fíli’s ‘trips’ to the kitchen had less to do with seasoning than it had with escaping further questions. But it may have just been a misguided feeling.

“Indeed, he hasn’t,” Thorin answered with a small nod, playing along for the sake of the evening’s light atmosphere. A steaming mug of honeyed tea had done wonders for his sore throat, and though it was still a bit hoarse at least his voice had been returned to him – even if he felt a tad warm, teetering on the edge of discomfort, and it made him slightly dizzy. He was finally out of that lonely room and allowed to share a meal with everyone, though at the moment ‘everyone’ only included Dwalin, Frodo and a fleeting Fíli. “But that particular trait seems to run in the family, so I would not lay blame on him.”

“Speakin’ of things that run in the family…” Dwalin’s free hand rose to ruffle Frodo’s hair, wreaking havoc in the once-kempt mop of black curls. “Don’t you have somethin’ for Thorin here, little lad?”

It was almost comical, the way Frodo’s eyes travelled all the way up from the cookie in his hand to Thorin’s own gaze and back, as though the youngling could not decide whether he should speak immediately or if he had time for another bite. The small hobbit had trouble maintaining eye contact for longer than a second, as well, but it was enough for Thorin to detect glints of uneasiness and hesitation in the boy’s blue pools. It made him curious as to what could possibly have Frodo so nervous.

Before he could ask, however, the child finally made up his mind and carefully – reverently, even – deposited the remaining half of his cookie down on the table. With his freed hand, then, Frodo fished around in a little pocket near the hip of his pants and retrieved something in his closed fist which had Thorin’s curiosity taken up a notch.

“I-I wanted to give it to Uncle Bilbo but he said I should give it to you myself,” Frodo bubbled, shifting his weight around in Dwalin’s lap.

Thorin tried to keep the puzzled frown he felt pulling at his brow at bay, so as not to peeve Frodo any further. When the little fist uncurled, the dwarf’s eyebrows shot up high.

There, in the cradle of the lad’s fingers, rested Thorin’s ear clasp.

He had thought it lost, stuck somewhere in that wretched warg’s tubes and never to be recovered – lest he worked up the courage to gut the foul creature and search for the ornament, something he was probably better off never picturing. But there it was, in the palm of a child, surrounded by cookie crumbs.

Thorin had crafted that ear clasp as a birthday present for Frerin, from a tiny silver ore that had been sitting at the bottom of his pocket since the downfall of Erebor. Silver was hard to come by on the road, making it precious and quite expensive, yet Thorin had not chosen to trade it for money. If it was to be the last ore to be collected from the Lonely Mountain’s mines, then it would not go to a complete strange who would forever be unable to fully appreciate it. He had spent many hours shaping the ear clasp, carving runes that spoke of strength and resilience, giving the ornament a design unrivalled by any in Middle-Earth.

The war with the Orcs had started, then, and the silver ear clasp had been put aside to be finished and gifted later. Never to be worn by its would-be owner.

It had taken years for Thorin to even gaze at the trinket, yet he always stubbornly kept it tucked somewhere on his person. He had thought, quite ludicrously so, that the clasp was the last thing that still linked him to his brother, and to be rid of it altogether would sever that fragile thread. Decades after Frerin’s death, in the Blue Mountains, it had slipped from his pocket and fallen to the ground with a small clinking sound.

Thorin had known, then, that he only had two choices. Either throw the trinket away and admit that he was still in mourning, or accept it in his possession without flinching every time he saw it.

In true dwarven fashion, Thorin had gone with the third option. He had elected to do what Frerin would never be able to and wear the ear clasp to honor his late brother’s memory.

Perhaps that was a story Frodo would enjoy hearing. But that was for another time.

Thorin reached out and allowed the lad to tip the ornament in his larger, callused palm with a grateful nod. “My thanks, little master, for recovering this for me. I am in your debt, though I hope,” Thorin added with a small smirk when Frodo’s eyes lit up with happiness, “that you did not put yourself in danger to retrieve it.”

The youngling’s body, which had begun to straighten in pride, slumped forward again and Frodo took to eyeing the table sheepishly. “Ma told me to stay home, but… Mister Glóin said you had lost something, something you cared about very much s-so… I went back and searched.” Frodo’s hands curled into little fists on the table as the lad resolutely kept from meeting Thorin’s gaze. “I wanted to find it, so you would not hate me…”

“Hate you?” This time the puzzled frown took control over Thorin’s mien at the mention of the strong word. “Why would I hate you?”

“Y-you almost died and it was my fault!” Frodo squeaked, seemingly a bit louder than he intended for the lad wriggled back into Dwalin’s chest in discomfort. “Even if you didn’t die, you are still hurt, and it’s all because of me. I w-wanted to make it up to you, so I escaped when Da was not looking. It took a bit of time and Da scolded me a long time but I had to. I’m sorry, Mister Thorin, it’s my fault you ended up l-like this.”

Thorin could not quite believe his ears – nor his eyesight, and a good thing too, since the first hint of tears in Frodo’s eyes was enough to make his breath catch in his chest. Not only did Frodo blame himself for the way the previous night had played out, but he had gone against his parents’ wishes and risked his own life – to some degree – for the sake of finding a trinket he had never seen before. All of this solely because the lad was firmly convinced that Thorin was angry at him and that finding the silver clasp would somehow help with mending whatever relationship they had begun to build before this whole ordeal.

The tortuous workings of a child’s mind…

“Frodo, look at me,” Thorin said softly, and Mahal, how could the fauntling’s eyes be so wet already? “You are not to blame for what happened last night, nor is young Samwise. Nobody could have foreseen it. As for the clasp… you are right, when you say that I care very much about it, but I would never, _never_ trade your life for it. This I swear on Durin’s good name.” Thorin gave his best shot at a warm smile. “I don’t hate you and I never will, young Master Baggins.”

At this Frodo’s watering eyes blinked and tension seemed to ease from the lad’s shoulders. “Really?” he asked timidly, almost afraid that he had imagined Thorin’s words.

“Really. In fact, I am wondering if I could trust you with an important mission.” Frodo took the bait and sat a bit straighter in a chuckling Dwalin’s lap, giving Thorin his undivided attention. The dwarven King was amused by the boy’s eagerness and swiped his braided hair over his shoulder. “As you can see, my ear needs time to heal. I would be honored if you accepted to act as my ear clasp keeper until I can once more wear it safely.”

The words had left Thorin’s mouth with no care for his mind’s consent, courtesy of his swimming head, but then Frodo smiled and it seemed the very light of the Sun was sitting at the table next to him.

“Will you do that for me?”

Frodo’s frantic nod would have been enough to inform Thorin that his request had been accepted. But then the boy held out his arms in a clear plea for Thorin to pick him up and the King sucked in a breath.

Slowly, not really registering the motion even as he was doing it, the dark-haired dwarf reached out and tucked his broad hands under Frodo’s armpits. The fauntling did not weigh more than a small bucket of coal, Thorin would wager, and the fingers that grasped his forearms for support were impossibly tiny; all of which prompted him to handle his small burden with utmost care. Carefully, he plucked Frodo from Dwalin’s lap and brought him to his own, cradling the child to his large chest as soon as he was settled. The lad’s warm weight on his thighs was like an anchor to reality and the messy, soft curls nestled against his stomach brought fondness to his old dwarven heart. The feeling only deepened when Frodo cuddled close, burying his little nose into the fabric of Thorin’s shirt.

The dwarf awkwardly stroked Frodo’s raven hair, thankful that the pressure of the lad’s weight was not enough to cause his wounds discomfort.

Dwalin only chuckled and helped himself to another cookie.

This was how Bilbo and Bombur found them, a handful of minutes later. Frodo was shyly playing fork-battle with a smirking Dwalin, still comfortably nestled into Thorin’s lap as the dwarf slowly combed back strands of dark hair, carefully pulling out the occasional knot with fingers that felt far clumsier than usual. The black curls were soft as a dwarf babe’s first sproutof fuzz around the jaw; it reminded Thorin of Fíli’s first shadow of a beard and how the lad had taken great pride in padding around with his chin held high.

Said nephew’s chin was generously furbished, now, and so was the enormous steaming pot he was carrying into the dining room as he walked behind Bilbo and Bombur.

“I hope you lads are hungry,” Bilbo said with a smile. “Bombur here went a bit overboard with the stew and we probably have enough potatoes to feed the whole of Erebor, Ravens included.”

At the mention of food – especially a copious amount of it – Frodo’s eyes grew wide as saucers and he quickly abandoned his mock-battle with Dwalin to eye the pot with wonder. Thorin didn’t fight the chuckle that rumbled up his abused throat; hobbit children were as bad as adults when it came to food. Perhaps even worse, judging by the way Frodo began to shift eagerly in his lap, fork at the ready to stab at whatever would be deposited in the wooden plate in front of him.

“Frodo, you might want to give a bit of space to Thorin so he can eat too.”

“He does not bother me,” the dwarven King found himself saying automatically when Bilbo made to pick the fauntling up and away. “I’m not very hungry anyway. He can stay here.”

His One gave him a puzzled look but soon shrugged and smiled. “All right, then. Where’s everybody else?”

“I’ll take care of that.” With a grunt, Dwalin pushed himself from the table and stood. Whereas Thorin expected him to turn to the door to fetch their missing companions, his old friend merely marched further into the room until he reached the far wall. His intentions remained unclear, until he turned the knob to open the window and took a great intake of breath.

It was sheer instinct that allowed Thorin to clamp his hands over Frodo’s ears in time.

“ _DINNER’S READY_!”

The thundering bellow shook even the walls of the sturdy smial and everyone – save for a very lucky Frodo – gave a pained groan.

“Well, that was very nice of you, Dwalin,” Bilbo snorted. “Thank you very much.”

“Yer welcome.” As always, sarcasm slid down the warrior’s form like water on fish scales and Balin’s brother returned to his seat. The chair had been Bilbo’s grandfather’s, Grandpa Mungo if Thorin recalled correctly, the one he had so many times dozed off in beside the fire, pipe about to slip from his slack lips.

For some obscure yet welcome reason, Bilbo did not even look miffed that somebody else was using the antique seat anymore.

“Well, we’ll count ourselves lucky if only half the Shire comes running after such a call,” Bilbo said as he shook his head, but Thorin caught the shadow of a smirk on his One’s lips. “In the meantime, we’ll just- ah?” the hobbit cut himself off when they heard the door swing open on its hinges.

The appearance of a few scruffy heads replaced the look of confusion with one of fondness. “Well, well, look what the warg dragged in,” Bilbo commented, crossing his arms over his – thin, still far too thin in Thorin’s opinion – midsection in his best impression of a scolding mother. “Bofur, son of Bolur. Glóin, son of Gróin. Oh, and Kíli too!”

The presence of the young archer seemed to surprise Bilbo, in a pleasant way that prevented him from mentioning Kíli’s lineage as he had the other two. Thorin could not help but find it at least slightly suspicious. Then again, he could be misinterpreting Bilbo’s body language; his skull felt far too tight to be normal at the moment.

Though there was no mistaking the sudden tension in the room, as all eyes seemed to shift to Kíli and flit back, almost nervously. What had his nephew done to warrant such disguised attention? It left Thorin wondering.

“Kíli!” Frodo called happily, a bright grin threatening to split his little face in two, and just like that all tension seemed to ease from the room.

The indescribable yet dejected look on Kíli’s face vanished at the youthful voice. With a small smile, Thorin’s youngest nephew took a seat on his uncle’s right and gladly picked Frodo up when the boy reached out. Though Thorin spared a moment to mourn the loss of the little warm ball, he was only too happy to see the fond smile that lit Kíli’s face up. It felt like he had not seen his nephew smile – truly smile – in years.

And if for the first time in as many years Fíli elected not to settle right next to his brother when Bilbo called for everyone to sit down, well, that matter could be investigated at a later date.

 

* * *

 

 

“And then I said, ‘Kíli, that’s no elf maiden’ and the lad went paler than wretched Azog himself!”

Boisterous laughter erupted all around the table at Dwalin’s last words; ale was sloshed and crumbs were spat and Bilbo found himself guffawing along with the dwarves.

They were well on their way to wiping the huge pot that once had been Bilbo’s mother’s clean of the delicious beef stew Bombur had slaved over, and in spite of Bilbo’s previous uncertainties only a few potatoes had yet to be wolfed down. Even Frodo, whom he had been told was a reserved child, was unleashing his hearty appetite on poor unsuspecting chunks of meat that Kíli was carefully cutting in his plate.

The young dwarf had made a mission of watching over Frodo’s meal. Cutting up food and filling the boy’s glass were the highest priorities on the list; it made Bilbo’s heart flutter, to see the accomplished warrior slowly cutting a slab of meat into tiny bite-sized morsels. Dwalin’s words only made Kíli roll his eyes and mutter things in Frodo’s ear that made the fauntling giggle.

Across the table, Bofur and Bombur leaning against one another in stitches, holding their aching sides as Dwalin looked on smugly. Fíli was giving Glóin’s back solid taps as the red-haired dwarf’s frame shook with great hacking coughs; Dwalin’s story had seemingly caused ale to go down the wrong way, which only deepened the bald warrior’s pride when he took note of Glóin’s predicament and pulled fierce barks of laughter from his throat.

Even Thorin had some sort of small smile permanently plastered across his features, a bit dazed but genuine.

Food and cheer really made for a merrier world.

“No paler than our good burglar here when Bofur first mentioned Smaug, I wager,” Bombur gasped when he found his voice again, nudging his brother’s hat until the thing slipped down over Bofur’s eyes.

When mirthful gazes were levelled at him, Bilbo gave a low groan. “Must we really speak of this again? It was embarrassing enough to live through once, let’s just keep it at that, thank you.” A vicious stab and carrots were impaled on his fork, leaving the plate to be shoved in his mouth. “Though I must add, you’ll be hard-pressed to find any hobbit here who doesn’t turn green when asked to face a dragon.”

“Perhaps, but how many would just faint dead in the hall?”

Great guffaws once more shook the table, but Bilbo could only manage a mildly annoyed look. And that soon melted away when he caught sight of Thorin’s fond gaze. He sighed; what would be the point denying it? ‘Furnace with wings’ was too terrifying an image for the average gentlehobbit.

But what he could not deny, Bilbo could deflect.

“You all are mistaken, my dears,” he crooned, pointing his fork around. “If I fainted, it is only at the thought of cleaning all the mud a whole pack of dwarves and their distasteful boots had tracked in my halls in time for Midsummer’s Eve, that’s why.”

It was Bilbo’s turn to laugh when six of the seven dwarves around the table sputtered and the dining room was filled with protests and outraged shouts.

“Preposterous!”

“We did no such thing!”

“I distinctly remember wiping mine on your mother’s glory box, you even scolded me!”

“You never did tell me,” Thorin said when the noise level in the room once more reached a tolerable state, “what exactly happened here before I arrived.”

“Well, my good King, if you must know,” Bilbo huffed, “while you were busy finding your way around and scaring hobbits into giving you directions, your subjects here were happily turning my perfectly respectable smial into the biggest mess West of Bree of this Age. Oh, and they sang, quite the dreadful ordeal let me tell you.”

“You would have liked the song, Uncle,” Fíli piped in, before his brow creased in thought. “It had something to do with spoons, or forks, I can’t remember how it began. Blunt the forks…”

“Blunt the knives and bend the forks,” Bilbo said, and he immediately clamped a hand over his mouth. The words had slipped by without his notice, little more than a whisper really, and he hoped nobody had heard them.

The heavy smirks that caught his eye pulled a groan from Bilbo. Tough luck.

“Now, don’t you dare-”

“ _Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_ ”

“There’s a child here! What kind of example-”

“ _Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_ ”

“Fíli! Fíli, step down from that table right now! Don’t make me come and fetch you!”

“ _Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_ ”

“That’s it, young dwarf! I’m coming for you!”

“ _That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ ”

How the very same Bilbo Baggins that was sung about managed to scramble on the table only to be swept into a dance by a laughing Fíli, Yavanna herself might have trouble figuring out, but still it came to pass that the next chorus was led by a very enthusiastic Bilbo. The hobbit, whose heart had mellowed out upon witnessing the joy on the young Prince’s face, had snatched up two golden braids and was using them as conductor’s batons for the other dwarves – most of whom were making music with the most unexpected of instruments, the salt shaker in Dwalin’s hands could probably write a full book on the topic.

The whole scene probably looked a bit ridiculous and were anyone to peer through the window at that moment, they would have been in for a surprise. Fresh gossip about Mad Baggins and his dwarves would be set loose first thing in the morning and old biddies would find yet another thing to complain about, but Bilbo found he had no place in his heart to care. Not when there was so much cheer, so much life in his friends’ eyes, so much joy ablaze in their hearts that it threatened to burn the whole of Hobbiton.

There was no time to be proper or wary of what others might think as Kíli climbed onto the table as well with Frodo in his arms, dark shadows gone from his features as his off-tune bellows made the fauntling giggle. And there was absolutely, absolutely no time at all to feel self-conscious while Thorin looked so radiantly _happy_ to be sitting here, all bandaged up and listening to the merriest, silliest song to have ever graced his kin’s lips with a smile to put even the Sun itself to shame. That King, who could very well have been lost to dragon sickness, battle wounds or a hungry warg.

So if, when the last roar of ‘ _That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!_ ’ rattled the dining room and sturdy dwarven fists slammed down upon the table in lieu of drums, Bilbo’s eyes prickled with tears, that was nobody’s business but his own, thank you.

“To our burglar!” Glóin cheered loudly, raising his tankard and sloshing a bit of ale about.

“The stinging fly!” Bofur nodded, his long whiskers flying about his face.

“Riddler of Dragons!” Fíli and Kíli sang together as Frodo clumsily attempted to travel from the youngest brother’s arms to the eldest’s.

“Friend of the Durin-damned moss eaters!” Dwalin grunted, hiding a smirk in his own tankard.

“Barrel-rider!” Bombur exclaimed around a mouthful of delicately-baked sesame bread.

“Now, now, lads,” Bilbo said with his hands up in a placating manner, though the use of his many titles did funny things to his belly – and he was secretly glad that Dwalin had not called Elves by the unsavory term of ‘tree-shagger’ for Frodo’s sake. “Half of those things were done unwittingly, and the other half I did out of sheer-”

“To Bilbo Baggins, future Consort Under the Mountain!” Thorin roared suddenly, raising his mug of – doubtlessly cold – tea and pulling a fresh batch of cheers from the rest of the company.

To say that Bilbo was shocked would be a dire understatement. Never before had he seen Thorin, the stern King, put his mood on so open a display or speak of his feelings so readily – because that was what the dwarf was doing, bragging about their future marriage under the guise of a title. Then again, Thorin had acted a bit strange since he had woken up.

“Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed as he felt a blush creep up his neck. “I was counting on you to be the level-headed one.”

His suitor’s cheeks were a ruddy red, probably brought on by good food and merriment. “Were you? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, but there will be no level-headedness on my part tonight.”

“You’re the King, aren’t you supposed to be level-headed at all times?”

“I’m almost sure Balin mentioned there’s a law about that,” Fíli supplied with a nod.

“Yer right about that,” Dwalin guffawed, the pink tinge of his cheekbones a reminder of the amount of ale he had chugged down that night. “It’s right between the decree on forbidden pets and the treaty listin’ off the reasons why we should never trust Thranduil’s ugly mug!”

A chorus of deep-throated laughter met his comment and many a son of Mahal raised his tankard in approval. When the wave of mirth died down and everybody settled back into their seats, still a booming noise remained, echoing off the walls like rolling thunder.

It took Bilbo a few seconds to identify its source and when he did, his eyes widened.

There sat Thorin Oakenshield, head thrown back and mouth opened around the deepest, fiercest bouts of laughter. They rolled about low in his belly and rumbled up his throat where they ripened, before they were released into the open air.

It was quite certainly the most wonderful sound Bilbo had ever been given to hear.

“Well, aren’t you cheerful tonight,” Bilbo chuckled pleasantly, stepping down from the table and claiming Kíli’s former seat on Thorin’s right. “That’s a refreshing change.”

Thorin’s eyebrow rose mockingly. “My apologies, kurdel, I fail to see what you are imply-” A sudden coughing fit cut off the last part of Thorin’s sentence and had the dwarven King clutching the edge of the table.

Bilbo winced and snatched Dwalin’s tankard – it was not a glass of water, but it would do. “Here, here, dear. Drink this. Your throat is still bothering you, I take it?”

Between one cough and the next Thorin managed to nod. With great hacking sounds still shaking his broad frame, the dwarf accepted the tankard and brought it to his lips. A few sips seemed to ease the pained jerks of his chest and although there were many a pair of eyes turned their way, Bilbo reached out and stroked Thorin’s jaw in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

“It’s all right, it’s normal,” he whispered when Thorin’s features took on a sour, almost blank mask. A far cry from the show of joy from moments before. “You have been severely wounded, regardless of what you think. You need to give your body time to recover and before you know it you’ll be… Thorin? Are you listening?”

When had the dwarf turned so pale? Bilbo witnessed, mildly hypnotized, as Thorin’s grip around Dwalin’s tankard grew slack until it slipped from his hands altogether, clattering to the floor with a dull thump. The hobbit looked on helplessly as Thorin’s shoulders dropped and his nose dipped forward, his whole frame slumping on itself as a puppet without strings would.

All of this, the shireling watched. Still, when Thorin collapsed from his chair and his jaw hit the edge of the table on the way down, Bilbo could not help but cry out.

 

 

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	28. Squished by a Mountain Troll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, there will be more regular updates. But today is not that day!
> 
> Edit: 1,000 kudos milestone! I'm so amazed, guys!

When Thorin next opened his eyes, they were immediately assaulted by blinding light.

He moaned and brought a hand up to shield his face against the stinging attack; surprise raced through him when pain flashed across his palm and his face and he warily pulled the limb away. He would investigate the reason why it hurt so much later; for now, he needed to find a position that did not put strain on his aching back.

Thorin slowly curled up and rolled onto his right shoulder with a huff and a swimming head. He was lying on a bed, that much was obvious, but while it was comfortable it was sticky and reeked of sweat. The sheets tangled around his feet were equally damp, by the feel of it, and a pain to worm his legs out from. Would that Thorin had a bit more strength in him he would struggle out of the damned linens but it seemed that he was quickly losing that battle.

As well as his patience.

“Ah, he wakes at last.”

The familiar voice had Thorin’s ear twitching but before he could look for its source, there was the sound of curtains being drawn and even more light filtered through his half-opened eyelids. Unbidden, a deep keening noise clawed its way up his throat, one that he was instantly ashamed of but could not have prevented. Embarrassment and exhaustion had him pinned in place when he should have rolled over so to turn his back on the overwhelming sunshine.

The bed dipped and warm, soft fabric found itself pressed to his stomach, but Thorin did not dare open his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” the same voice asked gently.

‘Trampled by a horse’ and ‘squished by a mountain troll’ naturally came to mind, but Thorin doubted his ability to form full sentences at the moment. “Dead,” he rumbled, his voice dry and cracked. “And sticky.”

Bilbo’s chuckles were like the fresh music of a little spring stream.

“Here I was thinking that the dead could not speak. I know a wizard or two who will be sorely surprised.”

Thorin grunted into his pillow, burrowing further into it to escape the blinding light. Questing fingers found their way in his mane and the dwarf almost purred when they began scratching at the back of his skull. He may be aching all over but the simple touch did wonders to distract him from his hurts.

“I am glad you have no trouble speaking. Asphodel warned that it might take some time before the swelling went away but it seems to have worn off quickly enough.”

Through his haze of comfort Thorin frowned. “Swelling?” he inquired, the word filtering around a mouthful of pillow.

“Yes, the swelling, quite gruesome to be honest. After you fainted at the dinner table,” and there Thorin gave a groan as memories flooded back into his sluggish mind, “I had Fíli fetch Asphodel and she checked you all over, but found no trace of infection. Yet you were burning up, Thorin, a fever so fierce that it can’t have pounced on you sometime between main course and dessert.”

There was no mistaking the accusation in his beloved’s voice and Thorin had the decency to look away sheepishly. He had known from the moment he had awoken from that awful nightmare that he was ill, somehow, but he had foolishly not wanted to linger on the matter.

“Apologies,” he whispered, clearing his throat a bit when it tickled.

“Yes, well. When I mentioned you were having trouble breathing Asphodel checked your throat and, my, look what she found.”

Curiosity beat Thorin’s reluctance to subject himself to the light coming from the small window – which did not appear in any way small, not by any stretch of the imagination – and the dwarf peered up with a blinking, bleary eye.

Bilbo was holding something up, a box of some sort, but it was unspeakably difficult to make out the exact form with so much Sun flooding the room. If only he could just… no, it was not a box, it was a small jar, one of those his hobbit liked to store jam in. But what had taken up residence inside had nothing to do with the heavenly treat. It almost looked like…

“A tooth?” Thorin asked slowly, frowning in confusion.

“You have keen eyes, O King.” Bilbo held the jar up to inspect it thoughtfully, shaking it a bit to jostle the small, wickedly-curved item inside. “A tooth, indeed. A parting gift from your starved friend. It took Asphodel a lifetime and a half to extract it from your throat, thankfully you were unconscious.”

Absently, Thorin reached up and felt around his throat with a drowsy hand. His fingers recoiled in surprise when they glanced across the coarse fabric of medical gauze instead of the usual prickly feel of stubble. His first reaction was to send an alarmed look up to his intended, one that the hobbit understood all too quickly.

“Never fear, she only shaved what was necessary to see the puncture, which was about the surface of your smallest fingernail,” Bilbo soothed, his hand rubbing small circles between Thorin’s shoulder blades. “I swear, she couldn’t have shaved much more with Kíli begging her on his knees to be merciful. You’d think she was going to have your whole beard off, the way that clot wailed. Anyway, after that it was only a matter of cutting the infected wound open, drawing all the pus out and digging for that charming little fellow here and I must say, my digestive process was positively delighted.”

Thorin snorted and gave Bilbo’s thigh a small nudge with his elbow. “My throat feels better,” he noted, nuzzling back into the warmth of his pillow as his eyelids slid shut once more. Surely it was still early and he was allowed to linger a bit more in this bed, damp and smelly as it was.

“That would be expected, yes, considering how long you went without using it.”

Thorin frowned. “One night hardly counts as ‘long’, I would say.”

“One night?” A short, amused laugh. “Dearest, you slept for two days.”

Two days.

The words echoed and bounced off the back of Thorin’s skull to spring forward again, pulling at his eyes and forcing them open. How could he have slept for so long? How was… in which realm was it possible for anyone to stay asleep for such an extended period of time, baring concussions and other head trauma? Oh, yes, he had been feeling tired, exhausted even; but even back when he was roaming the hills of Dunland, working himself to the bone, he had never fallen in so deep a state of exhaustion that he had to sleep for more than a handful of hours.

In the background, Bilbo was rambling, but the words failed to register fully in Thorin’s brain.

“-and a good thing, too, that you weren’t moving an inch. I think it gave your other wounds some time to heal, more than the poultice did. It’s not Asphodel’s greatest medicine, I’ll give you that, but that tea she made did wonders to get rid of your fever so-”

“Two days?” Thorin asked sloppily, his eyelids dropping low as a clear indication that he probably could sleep through the next few hours just as easily.

Bilbo’s voice trailed off and the hobbit looked downward, his expression a mixture of worry and fondness. “Yes, two days. Two and a half, rather, since it’s morning now.”

“I don’t feel like I slept for two days,” Thorin said, his speech a bit slurred as he struggled to control his tongue but his head cleared with every tendril of slumber that he felt easing from his mind.

“Trust me on this, your smell tells another story.”

For the span of half a second, Thorin was ready to take offence. But then he took an experimental sniff somewhere near his armpit and his nose wrinkled of its own accord. He smelled worse than a wet pony after days on end of solid work, and he had the feeling that he looked even shaggier.

He needed a bath; a bit of grooming and combing would not be amiss, too.

“You’re right about that,” Bilbo nodded and only then did Thorin realize he had mumbled the words out loud. “If you feel up for it, I’ll draw you a bath. You are in dire need of a good scrubbing.”

Through the haze of drowsiness that had taken up residence at the forefront of his mind, Thorin found the force to smirk. “One that you are willing to deliver yourself?”

Maybe the words had stumbled out sounding a bit more dirty than Thorin had first intended, but the sharp blush that rose to Bilbo’s cheeks was well worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

Getting Thorin out of bed had only been the beginning of the problem. Dodging Fíli and Kíli’s sloppy hugs while still providing support for a staggering – not to mention obscenely heavy – dwarf had made a large dent in Bilbo’s patience. But this… this was taking the cake.

“For the last time, Dwalin, get out of this bathroom!” Bilbo hissed, trying and spectacularly failing to push the tall dwarf out the door.

He only succeeded in reaping a scowl and a grunt.

“Last time he left my sight, he got his rump mauled by a warg,” Dwalin rumbled, his enormous frame wholly unimpressed by Bilbo’s efforts to manhandle it out of the room. “I’m not takin’ any chance.”

“Fine! Then guard the door from the _outside_ , that’s where wargs usually come from,” the hobbit snapped. “Give Thorin a bit of privacy, you silly lump!”

“I’ve seen his naked bum more times than I care to remember. M’eyes can take one more.”

Bilbo huffed. He did not know which annoyed him the most: Dwalin’s pig-headedness or his words. While he was aware that years on end spent on the road left little to the imagination in the realm of privacy, the reminder was unnecessary. He most certainly did not need to know how many times eyes other than his had been privy to Thorin’s anatomy, he could live with the ignorance.

One glance to the aforementioned King found him sitting precariously on the edge of the bathtub with a wobble in his legs and a stupid, stupid smirk on his face. When he caught Bilbo’s searing glare, however, Thorin’s look turned serious.

A few guttural words in Khuzdul were thrown at Dwalin, who in turn retaliated with a bark Bilbo was certain had not been chosen for its politeness. The hobbit sighed and ran a hand through his messy mop of hair, expecting the shouting match to last long enough for them to miss elevensies; to his surprise, Thorin’s next words caused Dwalin to raise his eyebrows, give a deep chuckle and shuffle out of the bathroom.

“What… I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but what did you tell him?” Bilbo asked in bewilderment when the door clicked shut.

“Does it matter? He left, as you wished,” Thorin shrugged, dipping a couple of fingers in the – for now – clean water.

Well… the dwarf had a point. Though Bilbo found his mysterious behavior highly suspicious, he decided to shrug it off and go on with his original plan.

Thorin stayed amazingly put as Bilbo unwrapped various lengths of gauze from his upper body. Balanced on the edge of the clawfoot bathtub with his hands braced on either side of his frame, Thorin endured the tiny pulls as fabric was peeled away from his skin in silence. He even allowed Bilbo to tilt his head back, obediently exposing his throat to bare the wound there.

Thanks to a prolonged period of rest and Asphodel’s awful-smelling poultice, Thorin’s injuries were healing quite nicely. The smallest cuts were almost closed and although the deeper gashes, along his ribs and upper limbs, were still a bit red around the stitches, they were hardly as swollen as before.

“This looks very good,” the hobbit commented as he prodded Thorin’s torn palm and saw the dwarf’s thumb jerk in response. “See now, that’s why good rest is very important in any healing process. You dwarves wouldn’t spend half as long recovering from your injuries if you just listened to healers and took it easy.”

The trademark rebuke that Bilbo expected never came. Instead of grumbling about how Dwarves were a hardy folk and Hobbits the furthest thing from that, Thorin leaned forward and settled his chin on Bilbo’s shoulder, gently nuzzling into the crook where neck met collarbone. The only sound that left his lips was a deep, satisfied hum.

All… right? This was certainly odd, but not unpleasant, if Bilbo took a second to think about it. Perhaps Thorin’s docile behavior had something to do with the strain the fever had put his whole body and mind through, or the amount of sleep he had been getting lately; whatever was causing the dwarf to yield to his touch, Bilbo decided not to read into it too much and simply accepted the small gift for what it was. He would have hated to fight his suitor without even a proper second breakfast in his belly.

His smiling, very tactile and very stinky suitor.

“In you go, dear,” Bilbo said with a gentle pat on the tangled mass of dark hair against his cheek. “Your hair is a right mess, I must have a comb around here somewhere. Here, let me,” he added when Thorin’s fingers began fumbling with the laces of his breeches.

His words had once more clambered ahead of his thoughts and Bilbo immediately found himself on the receiving end of a surprised yet amused rise of dark eyebrows. Thorin’s smirk, if such a thing was even possible, grew even broader.

“Oh hush, I’d like you to be done with bathing before next week, and there’s no way we’ll accomplish that if I let you do everything on your own,” Bilbo huffed, fighting the blush in his cheeks as he willed his fingers to please just stop trembling for a few seconds.

The bindings, already loose from Thorin’s clumsy fiddling, came apart rather easily. After this, it was only a matter of tucking his thumbs in the waistband of the dark blue breeches and sliding them down Thorin’s thick thighs while pretending he did not care about what lied between them.

Bilbo supposed he ought not to feel so self-conscious about his suitor’s nudity. It was not, after all, the first time Thorin came to be drastically under-dressed in his presence; but on those other occurrences, the dwarf had been either sick or injured – or both at once. Even the time they had shared together in that inn in Bree had seen most of Thorin shielded under blankets, so Bilbo could not really be faulted for feeling so awkward.

The hobbit carefully averted his eyes as he helped the bigger male into the water, only releasing his tight hold on a rock-hard bicep when Thorin’s back settled against the edge of the bathtub. The new position mercifully hid the King’s most distracting attributes from sight and Bilbo’s wits journeyed back to him.

That is, until a blissful sigh purred its way out of the blasted dwarf and the dying embers in Bilbo’s belly were fanned back into flames.

“This feels wonderful,” Thorin muttered, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to rest on the edge of the bathtub. Exposing his upper chest and the stubble running down his throat.

“Err, yes, I guess so,” Bilbo drawled, forcing his eyes away from the dark curls spattered across Thorin’s pectorals. “I… a comb. I’m fetching a comb,” he added under his breath, more to himself than Thorin as he turned away to hide the uncomfortable hint of his sudden arousal.

As he rummaged through his mother’s old dressing table – it had been the first item to be returned to him after the auction, foolishly deposited in the kitchen by Dwalin because, well, ‘with you Hobbits it’s always somethin’ to do with food, right?’ – Bilbo chose a wooden comb from the small collection Belladonna had acquired in her life. It was a pretty thing, made of soft willow wood and boar hair. The inked carvings on the back had been etched by a clumsy hand, this much was obvious, but all of Bungo’s love for Belladonna had been poured into the making of that gift. Maybe it was why the comb had been Bilbo’s mother favorite.

While walking back to the bathtub and a lounging dwarf, Bilbo frowned. He had yet to give Thorin a gift. True, he had cooked numerous times in Bag End, but those had been large meals for the whole company and he had received Bombur’s help most of the time. None of those could be considered a meal specially made with Thorin in mind. They had never exchanged flowers – though that had been a near thing, if Thorin’s story about Beorn’s home was true – or danced at a party; by hobbit standards, they were not even courting!

Bilbo sighed and found solace in the thought that at least, with those braids and beads in their hair, they were seen as a bonded pair in the eyes of Dwarves. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Said courting braids were quickly disposed of and the small pleased noise that escaped Thorin when Bilbo kneeled and scratched his dark hair into place did not go unnoticed.

That dwarf was just an oversized cat, nobody could convince Bilbo otherwise.

Therefore it was without surprise that five minutes’ worth of scrubbing soap into Thorin’s scalp and getting snarls out of his hair had the King half asleep, his mouth hanging quite comically open as his head swayed left and right to follow Bilbo’s hands.

“Still awake in here?” the hobbit chuckled when a scratch along Thorin’s temple had the dwarf bumping his cheek on the edge of the bathtub.

“Not sure,” Thorin rumbled from deep within his chest, eyes never opening. “I might be dreaming.”

“Well, try not to drown. Asphodel won’t save your sorry hide one more time, especially if I tell her you drowned in knee-deep water.”

Thorin gave a light growl and gently bumped the back of his head against Bilbo’s chin. “That would make you a murderer. A King murderer. I believe there is a specific word for the heinous act, but I cannot remember it at the moment.”

“A regicide,” Bilbo filled in with a fond smile as Thorin allowed him to lather his beard. “And I’m sure many in Erebor would thank me. Starting with your sister; she’ll probably make me General or something for giving her the throne of the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin made a soft sound, halfway between a huff and a whine. “Why must you be so mean? I have been nothing but courteous and still you insist on rebuking me.”

“I’m not rebuking you, I’m only teasing you, dear. And courteous? Please. In the last three days you caused my heart to fail at least twice, broke two perfectly good glasses in your delirium and almost vomited on me instead of the basin. That does not quite match my definition of ‘courteous’, you’ll excuse me.”

Thorin’s blue eyes glanced over his shoulder, meeting Bilbo’s in a curious gaze. “I apologize, although I do not remember any of those acts. You may as well have forged them.”

“I swear on Aunt Mirabella’s roasted apple pie recipe that it’s the truth. Now, sit up, I need to wash your back.”

With a grunt, Thorin did as he was told and braced his arms on either side of the bathtub to raise his upper body halfway out of the water. Stifling an appreciative hum at the sight of tiny droplets running down the hard planes of Thorin’s shoulder blades, Bilbo grabbed the bar of soap and set to work.

Diligently, he scrubbed the large expanse of tough skin free of grime and sweat, gentling his hands in the vicinity of bruises and cuts. A sad thing to say, but those would only add to the impressive collection of scars that littered Thorin’s back. Acquired more than one century earlier, most had faded to faint lines and could not be told apart from healthy skin by touch only; others, gained in more violent circumstances perhaps, stretched in pale streaks of raised flesh.

As he cleaned his suitor’s abused back, Bilbo found himself making up stories for the scars. That slash here had probably been dealt by a sneaky goblin in battle. That burn on the left shoulder blade? A forge accident, born of carelessness certainly. And that crescent-shaped mark at the back of the bicep…

“How did you get that?” Bilbo blurted, thumbs stretching the skin on either side of the scar as though it would give an answer of its own accord. It was clearly a bite mark, but too small to have been dealt by anything bigger than a big cat. And cats most certainly did not possess so many teeth that a bite would leave such a round reminder on someone.

“An arm? Well, I expect I obtained it from my mother. Some would argue that my father-”

“Don’t play daft, Thorin. How did you get _that_?” Bilbo asked once more, squeezing the upper arm.

“Muscles? Ah. I understand this might look strange to you, this is something you must not have come across often. See, when one trains their body and eats no more than three meals a day-”

“Oh, Yavanna’s gardens…Who is being mean now?” Bilbo growled, his hand easily finding the back of the uncouth dwarf’s head for a light swat – which did nothing to diminish the grin on the bearded features. “I’m speaking about the mark on your arm. It looks like something bit you.”

For a moment, Thorin looked puzzled. His attempt to twist his neck to get a look at the scar only brought a flash of pain across his face and Bilbo was quick to retreat.

“It’s nothing! I was just curious, no need to make a big deal out of-”

“Oh, that mark,” Thorin said suddenly, eyes dropping to the bubbles that had begun to make themselves at home on the surface of the water. If Bilbo didn’t know better, he may have thought the dwarf looked… embarrassed? “It is… well, it was acquired long ago, when I was very young.”

“You went and tickled a bear cub or something?” Bilbo chuckled, encouraging Thorin to lift his arm and allow access to his armpit. This was where in-depth cleaning had to take place.

Thorin snorted. “You could put it like that. There are still some days Dís gets mistaken for a bear, even now, even by people who have known her for a long while, myself included.”

Bilbo had to blink a few times before the words fully registered in his mind. “Your sister… bit you?” he said slowly, stilling his movements to stare at the dwarf whose gaze was still fixed somewhere between floating suds and his bellybutton. “Hard enough to leave a scar?”

“I will have you know milk teeth are incredibly sharp and Dís’ temper flares quickly when you steal the last cinnamon roll from under her nose.”

Bilbo laughed; he could just about picture it. A growing, tween Thorin snatching the treat his younger sister had been eyeing and getting pounced on for his cheek. Maybe it had taken place at the family table, at the end of dinner; perhaps it had made Frerin laugh and hit the table with his fist hard enough to send his plate flying. Had Thráin and his wife shouted and tried to pull their children apart? Or had they merely looked on with amusement, the siblings’ quarrels occurring so often that it had turned into some sort of routine?

So many things Bilbo was eager to know, yet he bit his tongue. Thorin seemed a bit uncomfortable with that story and he had no intention to press the matter while the dwarf was still recovering from serious injuries.

Bilbo invited Thorin to lean back so he could start working on the bigger male’s front. This was when his mind started wandering once more. All was safe and well as long as he focused on Thorin’s upper chest and stomach; things would take a different turn when he had to drift lower and clean more intimate parts.

Bilbo didn’t know quite where they stood with each other. While it was clear that Thorin was not as reluctant to experiment physical interaction as he had been at the start of their courtship, it was still unclear as to where the boundaries stood. The intimate moment they had shared in Bree had been born of exceptional circumstances, ones that Bilbo was not sure applied now. It was possible his touch would be refused, especially after the poor way he had treated the dwarf before the warg attack.

No, he was much safer lathering Thorin’s pectorals and ribs. Most of the dwarf’s wounds were there anyway, he could always pretend he was paying them extra attention and this would give him a good excuse to linger. No matter how cowardly this whole thing sounded.

“I do not mean to appear rude,” Thorin said, breaking the silence that had fallen on the room, “but if you scrub at that shoulder one more time, I fear the skin may fall off.”

“Sorry!” Bilbo yelped, wrenching his hand away and oh yes, that was a very red patch of skin underneath. “Sorry. I was… well, I was lost in thoughts.”

That was not technically a lie. Now if only Thorin held his curiosity in check and refrained from-

“Indeed. And what were those thoughts about, may I ask?”

_Oh, bebother. Quick, find something to say!_

“Nothing important, really,” Bilbo deflected, doing his best to keep his tone light and casual. “I was just thinking about… well, dwarven bodies and how different they are from Hobbits’, that’s all.”

Bilbo cringed. _That was not actually better than the full truth!_

Thorin’s curious look turned surprised, and one dark eyebrow rose as if in question. “Is that so?” he rumbled from deep within, laying back against the edge of the bathtub and exposing his wet and soapy chest for all to see. “And pray tell, Master Hobbit, how are they different?”

To anyone else, Thorin would be the perfect picture of innocence, stretched out under the water and only wearing a small smile to go with his genuinely interested blue eyes. To Bilbo, he looked just about as innocent as a crumb-covered Dwalin trying to hide an empty cookie jar.

“Well, for starters, there’s the size,” the hobbit began, completely lost as to what the end of his sentence should be but still he did what he did best: talk. “You lot are at least one head taller than anyone in the Shire. Well, any _living_ hobbit in the Shire, I’m sure my Great Grand Uncle Bandobras could have given even Dwalin a run for his money, so to speak. Did I ever tell you he was the only hobbit known to have ever ridden a horse?”

“I fear not. I do think I would recall such an important fact.”

“Well, he was. And he hated goblins probably more than you do, but that’s another story.” Absently, Bilbo scrubbed Thorin’s beard free of sweat as he racked his brain for the next brick of his argument’s wall. “There’s a thing or two to be said about your stature, I reckon. While both races can grow in width, Dwarves are stout and solid for the most part where Hobbits tend to be soft and plump- what are you doing?”

“Keep talking,” Thorin said lowly, casually, as though he most certainly did not have a hand creeping under Bilbo’s linen shirt, very wet fingers quickly closing around a hip.

“Err, yes, and…” Proper wording was very hard to find when there was a warm palm running up and down your side, Bilbo could attest. “Anyway, I… I think this comes from your ridiculous routine of only three meals per day, but let us leave it at that. Then…” Bilbo gulped, his voice trailing off in hopes that ideas would simply come flying, but a hearty squeeze at the small of his back had sparks coursing up his spine. “The hair! O-of course, the hair, let’s not forget the hair. You have enough fur to be mistaken for a wolf… You unbearable lump, you are doing this on purpose!”

“And if I am?” Thorin purred – _purred!_ The nerve! – from his exposed position, spread out on his back with his furred belly and thighs peeking out from between bubbles. The impossible dwarf had no right, no right at all to bare himself in such an unashamed way and look so handsome doing so. The urge to follow the track of wet hair down the other male’s stomach pulsed strong and steady in Bilbo’s heart, but he held back, if only to steal satisfaction from Thorin.

“Well, that concludes my lecture on dwarven anatomy then,” he said, trying to remember exactly how Lobelia twisted her nose to make it look so disdainful and copying the motion.

It died as soon as Thorin began pawing at Bilbo’s inseam with his good hand. “So soon? But there are still grounds to cover,” he said softly. “What of our feet, so small and fragile compared to yours? And your cheeks, smooth and rosy where ours are hiding behind rough beards?”

“My cheeks are not _rosy_.”

“They are, right now. Or is it merely the heat of summer?” Thorin asked slyly, a pleased smirk growing steadily on his whiskered features.

“The heat of sum– apple blossoms, Thorin, we’re in the bathroom!” Bilbo hissed from between his teeth when broad fingers inched up and between his legs, playfully tickling the fabric there.

“Yes, we are in the bathroom. Alone. After I almost died and we are finally back on speaking terms. This bathtub is large enough to house the two of us. Not to mention that I am not quite dressed enough for this to be a formal occasion.” Once innocent, Thorin’s grin turned roguish. “Nor will you be, as soon as I get a proper grasp on this unneeded clothing of yours.”

Fighting a growing blush, Bilbo found himself struggling with audacious digits keen on finding their way to his skin. “For the love of all that grows, Thorin! You are worse than a grappling… all right, all _right_! I’m going in with you,” Bilbo gave in when blunt nails threatened to tear the laces of his trousers without so much as a by-your-leave. “If you could just hold your ponies while I undress, that would be much appreciated. No need to ruin fine clothes.”

Turning away to undress provided no more privacy than if Bilbo had shed his trousers right under Thorin’s nose, for the burning at the back of his head could only come from a heated dwarven gaze. Hot as Erebor’s forges, strong as dwarrow steel.

It was not as though he was ashamed of his body, Bilbo thought as he glanced down. The trip to Erebor and harsh winter spent living on meager rations under the mountain had chipped at his soft edges and put some firmness into his otherwise plump stomach, but he still very much looked like a hobbit. Smooth chest, chubby thighs, furry oversized feet – with still some stubborn burns lingering on the ankles – and soft skin. The furthest thing from what a dwarf looked like.

Something that didn’t seem to bother Thorin a single bit.

“Bilbo, there is only so much patience I can show with you bare in the same room,” Thorin growled warningly. “Stop being cruel.”

“I’m coming. I swear, you are worse than a child begging for attention,” Bilbo sighed as he finally turned around and approached the bathtub without a stitch of clothing on. His annoyance was completely faked, for he was thoroughly enjoying Thorin’s attention. So much in fact that he never bothered to hide his private parts from sight, his ego flying far too high to feel self-conscious.

However, the same ego plummeted down Mordor’s deepest pits upon sighting Thorin’s horrified eyes.

The pure mortification in the blue pools stunned Bilbo into stillness, half a foot away from the bathtub. Suddenly, the hobbit felt as a stranger in his own skin, shuffling his weight from one leg to the other as the blush in his cheeks deepened; not from glee anymore, but from shame. Did Thorin find him so distasteful up close? He knew he was not much to look at, even by hobbits’ standards, but he had hoped… he had wished…

Well, it didn’t matter what he had hoped for. He clearly did not meet Thorin’s expectations.

“I… I’ll fetch a towel, if you’re done,” Bilbo mumbled, his eyes dropping as he was no longer able to withstand the dwarf’s disgusted stare. “Just a minute…”

“Come closer,” Thorin breathed, twisting his body in the water so that he could reach out with both hands. “Come here.”

Bilbo only wanted to bolt out of the bathroom, clothes or no, but Thorin’s tone did not leave any room for refusal. As such, shy as a faunt and skittish as a wild cat, Bilbo stepped forth until he felt both calloused palms closing carefully around his hips.

A few seconds trickled by, during which Bilbo obstinately avoided Thorin’s gaze and kept his eyes trained on the round door and its unused bolt. Maybe he should have spared a moment to lock it after Dwalin walked out; he did not particularly care about anyone walking in and finding them in this predicament. Granted, it would be worse to be caught sharing a bath naked with his suitor. It was a small relief that it was not going to happen that day.

Or any other day, when it came down to it.

Bilbo was torn from his dark line of thoughts when a soft, whimper-like sound came from Thorin.

“I inflicted this,” the King whispered sadly, his thumbs massaging Bilbo’s sides as though he was handling an extremely fragile piece of crystal. “I put you through pain while you have been nothing but devoted and faithful. I should be shaved bald for this.”

With yet another broken noise that suspiciously sounded like a stifled wail, the dwarf burrowed his nose somewhere above Bilbo’s bellybutton, his arms wrapping themselves all the way around the smaller male’s waist for a desperate embrace.

One look downward and it all became clear.

It was not so much Bilbo’s chubby stomach that appalled Thorin as the blue and black fist-shaped bruises that littered its surface.

Acquired more than two days ago, the dratted things had yet to fade. They still hurt a little, whenever Bilbo bent to pick up something or stretched his arms high above his head, but it was nothing more than an uncomfortable pull. The vicious marks suggested something more painful, however, and Bilbo’s heart was soothed when he understood Thorin’s concern.

“It’s all right, it doesn’t hurt much,” the shireling whispered, one hand on his dwarf’s hair rubbing gently and the other resting on a bulky shoulder. “You did not do it on purpose.”

“Fact remains that I did it, intentionally or no,” Thorin seethed, his voice a warm gust of air against Bilbo’s navel. “I hurt my One with my own fists, I beat into his flesh even as he begged me to stop. I am not worth even the air I breathe.”

“Have you ever considered minstrel as a change of occupation? You are very skilled with dramatics, my heart. You know I forgave you… if there’s anything to forgive, really.”

“You take these things too lightly, I do not deserve to even be called your heart. The offense I dealt upon you-”

“Is mine to handle as I see fit,” Bilbo interrupted, grabbing a handful of wet hair to gently pull Thorin’s head back and meet his haunted gaze. The shadows there tugged at his heart and gave a soft edge to his voice. “And I choose to forgive you. Now, my love, there is only one thing I need to know: will you leave me some space in this bathtub or do I have to fight you for it?”

There was a pregnant pause as both males shared an intense stare. Relief flooded Bilbo when shame slowly dimmed in Thorin’s eyes, to be replaced with something akin to deep adoration. With a mild groan, the dwarf’s arms tightened and his head dipped to Bilbo’s belly for a series of whiskery kisses that tickled the hobbit as much as they set his blood aflame.

“I do not deserve your forgiving heart,” Thorin mouthed, voice muffled against soft skin.

Bilbo rolled his eyes but could not help the fond smile that stretched his lips. “You have it, either way. Now, please?”

It took a bit of manoeuvring but soon enough, Bilbo was settled in the bathtub with Thorin’s legs on either side of his body and his back nestled into a very warm chest. The water had gone a bit cold but it was a relief from the unforgiving summer Sun, even though it did little to ease the aches born of stress in his muscles. The strong arms around Bilbo’s midsection more than made up for it.

“I have to admit, I was afraid,” the hobbit said as he lathered his arms and shoulders, giggling like a tween at the bearded mouth nibbling at his neck. “I thought you found me repulsive. When I turned around, you looked downright disgusted.”

The wet lips on his nape stopped their motions and a prickly chin came to rest on his shoulder. “The only disgust I felt was directed at myself,” Thorin mumbled, his aggravation not as evident now as it had been before. “I hate seeing you wounded in any way, but I find that I despise seeing you hurt by my hand above all else. It will not happen again, this I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Don’t make oaths you’re not sure you can keep. And please don’t mention your mother while we are both naked together, it’s… awkward.”

Thorin’s chuckle reverberated in Bilbo’s ribcage. “Agreed.”

They split tasks for the next few moments. Bilbo, soap bar in hand, dutifully scrubbed at his body and every part of Thorin’s that he could reach – the legs, the feet, sometimes the nail of a straying hand. For his part, Thorin zealously littered quick pecks and longer kisses across Bilbo’s shoulders and down his back, taking a break from time to time to nibble on a pointed ear. Unbeknownst to the dwarf – or perhaps the scoundrel knew perfectly well what his actions did to his intended’s heart rate, in which case he had something else coming – this kind of attention could be enough to warm the water up again.

To think that Bilbo had thought him repulsed. What a laugh.

“What of dwarven propriety and slow courting rituals?” Bilbo teased when one of Thorin’s hands found its way down his belly to caress his right thigh.

“We can get back to them as soon as we walk out of this washroom. Now, I believe I promised you something, in a creaking bed in a moldy inn somewhere.” Thorin’s teeth found the tip of a pointed ear and Bilbo fought the need to mewl. “Long have I waited for a chance to honor that oath.”

“I-I can certainly feel that,” Bilbo breathed shakily. In the cradle of his suitor’s legs, there was no mistaking the insistent bulge digging into the small of his back.

“Will you allow me?”

Not quite knowing what it was he was agreeing to exactly, Bilbo still gave a little nod at the husky demand, for he would not dream of refusing Thorin Oakenshield anything whenever the dwarf used that low tone.

The hands that had been idly playing with his body now felt like they were moving with a purpose. After a few additional caresses to his chest and stomach, they both journeyed south until they found their prize.

“Ah!” Bilbo gasped when a large palm closed around his length without any warning.

As if pulled by an invisible rope, the hobbit’s head slammed back into Thorin’s shoulder and remained stuck there. A reaction that brought the King much amusement.

“I did not expect you to be so sensitive, ghivashel,” he whispered warmly into Bilbo’s ear, his hand starting a slow rhythm underwater.

By all means Bilbo should have thought of a witty comeback, possibly involving a dark place Thorin could shove his dwarven smugness into, but only a throaty groan made it past his lips. He turned his head to bury his nose into Thorin’s neck, hands gripping the edges of the bathtub so tightly his knuckles would probably be white, should he care enough to look.

But what could he care, when Thorin’s speeding hand was wreaking havoc on his senses?

Bilbo released his death-like grip on the bathtub to reach blindly for the dwarf’s head. Clumsily, he rubbed round ears and wet hair alike, moaning as Thorin mouthed Khuzdul words into the soft skin of his collarbone. Dimly, Bilbo spared a grateful thought for the sturdy arm wrapped around his midsection and anchoring him to his suitor’s chest; he was not sure he could have prevented a slide to the bottom of the bathtub on his own.

In a matter of minutes, Thorin single-handedly – and Bilbo would muse on the irony later – reduced his intended to a lump of hisses and groans, and even the proper Baggins in him could not care less about his shameless rutting up into the rough palm that was stroking his member in sharp patterns. Gladly would Bilbo have reached back and returned the favor, for Thorin’s own arousal was achingly obvious against his bare bottom, but his head could not quite wrap itself around the idea. He felt like he could only lay and withstand the onslaught of sensations as they were thrown at his body.

“Goodness, yes, yes,” Bilbo panted in Thorin’s ear, his back arching off the bathtub so high he could feel the warm air of the bathroom hit his pelvic with each thrust. He still had one hand welded to one side of the bathtub; the other one, buried in dark strands, tugged and pulled at Thorin’s hair whenever the older male gave a particularly enjoyable twist of wrist. “Ohhh right there… right there, love…”

Thorin chuckled and again focused his attention on the crown of Bilbo’s cock, drawing yet another involuntary loud mewl from the hobbit’s mouth.

If Dwalin had taken it upon himself to guard the door, well, he probably had found something else to do by now.

“This feels… this feels… good gracious, Thorin!” Bilbo hissed when a strong wave of pleasure crashed over his mind. He was close, teetering on the edge maybe. It had been so long, so very long since the last time he had allowed somebody to touch him, and never had it felt so toe-curling pleasurable. “Thorin…”

“I’m here, âzyungel, I have you,” the dwarf rumbled softly, rough lips raining kisses on honey curls as his hand steadfastly massaged Bilbo’s cock.

“Please, I… I need…”

“I am not going anywhere, my heart.”

As if to counteract his last plight, Thorin’s arm unwound itself from around Bilbo’s midsection, pulling a plaintive moan from the unsupported hobbit who was then forced to struggle not to slide to the other end of the bathtub. The protesting noise turned blissful, however, when Thorin’s freed hand slipped between Bilbo’s trembling legs alongside its pumping counterpart to caress his drawn-up sack.

The first touch of fingers between his cheeks, yet, had surprise shooting up Bilbo’s back.

Feeling his intended’s start, Thorin’s questing hand stopped moving at once.

“No?” the dwarf inquired softly, his gaze seeking out Bilbo’s shadowed one.

In the midst of fierce arousal, the hobbit didn’t know what to answer. It had been long, as well, since he had last had this intimate an encounter, but he did not want to hurt Thorin and have him thinking this was not something he wanted.

The decision was torn from his grasp as Thorin, who had certainly mistaken his thoughtful silence for refusal, removed his bold digits and returned them to the soft skin of Bilbo’s sack.

The hobbit found it in himself to frown. “But I…”

“Forgive me, I should not have gone so far, it is much too soon. I must not ask for something that is not mine to give away.” Thorin dipped his head to nuzzle Bilbo’s cheek and nose, his lips finding their match for a warm kiss. “We have time, yet. This will be for another day.”

Bilbo could only groan as his waning erection was stroked back to life by a determined dwarven hand and he had to grip the edge of the bathtub with both hands lest he slumped underwater. “A-another day, then,” he agreed shakily before he decided to forego words altogether.

He had been close before, but the added pressure of a second hand between his legs playing with the soft skin there proved to be Bilbo’s undoing. Within moments, the hobbit was biting down on one fist to stifle his howl as his release barrelled forth and overwhelmed him, his back arching off so much that he literally dropped back down on Thorin’s chest with a big splash when his strained muscles turned to mush.

The dwarf wasted no time in gathering his panting hobbit in his arms and pulling him close in the cradle of his furred body. The soft words of praise and endearment were music to Bilbo’s ears and he could only purr as he listened to them, waiting for his heart to stop trying to break his ribcage and for his tongue to work again.

A tedious task, when it felt you had just been either trampled by a horse or squished by a mountain troll.

“Durin’s beard, that was lovely,” Bilbo breathed as soon as he was able to, his cheek resting snugly on a hairy pectoral.

To his surprise, Thorin burst out laughing. “To make you swear like a dwarf, I wager it was.”

“Swear like a… oh, good gracious, I did that, didn’t I?” Bilbo laughed as well, burrowing deeper into Thorin’s embrace when the dwarf tightened his hold. “It’s your fault!”

“How can this be my fault?”

“It _is_ , yours and all those other bloody dwarves’ as well,” Bilbo stated, one wet finger digging at an equally drenched chest. It was like poking a slab of marble. “You are all rubbing off on me, but I will have none of it!”

“If there’s any rubbin’ to be done, I think our ol’ King here’s the only one to blame,” a gruff voice said from the other side of the door.

The courting pair froze and shared a look.

“Dwalin?” Thorin called tentatively.

“At your service,” came the amused reply.

Mortification was quick to chase the peace of post-coital bliss away from Bilbo’s thoughts. “You were there all this time?” he asked and dear Yavanna, had that come out as squeaky as it felt?

“Yeh did tell me to guard the door. A good thing I did, too. Now I can tell everyone else that our King’s very much alive.”

This was all Dwalin could say before great barks of laughter took him and a strong thud indicated that the warrior had collapsed against the door in mirth.

Thorin gave a feral growl. “I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“Put some clothes on before you do!” Dwalin laughed back. “There are little ones in the house, don’t want their eyes fallin’ right out when they see your hairy butt!”

 

 

 


	29. A Battle in the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that an update? Yes. Yes I think it is ;)
> 
> Thank you for your support and comments, you guys are the best!

The following three days were spent in a fashion that Bilbo would have gladly pursued for the remainder of his years.

Over the course of those last days, they had not received any ill-willed visitor, which was perhaps the main reason they had been so enjoyable. No sneering Sackville-Baggins had come snooping around, no silly old bitty had strolled by with disapproval on their features and venom on their tongues.

Not to say that they had not received any visitor at all, far from it. They had actually welcomed a whole bunch of them on a daily basis, and though they hardly reached up to Dwalin’s knee they could certainly plunder Bilbo’s cookie stores as fiercely as the bald dwarf. Even before Thorin had awoken, Frodo’s little friends had come over to Bag End to play with him – and, admittedly, the dwarves – at least a couple of hours each day.

Young Samwise, Meriadoc and Peregrin were regular visitors, as they were closer to Frodo in age, and some days they were accompanied by a few of Sam’s siblings. On those particular days, Bell Gamgee never failed to push the front gate open – with her pregnant belly, of course, since her hands were far too burdened by freshly-baked pies – a few minutes before teatime with her husband in tow carrying a bucketful’s worth of blueberry muffins and apple tarts.

No wonder Bell had become the Company’s favorite hobbit, after Bilbo, needless to say, in record time. Trust a lady to know that the quickest way to win a dwarf’s heart was through his stomach and not ‘through the ribcage, if yeh’ve got the axe for it’ as Dwalin claimed.

On those days they would have tea together and then the faunts would scurry home to wash their faces and hands in time for dinner. It left Bilbo enough time to convince whoever had been the children’s playmates that day to do the same before he had to give Frodo a bath.

Today that fate had befallen Fíli and Kíli. Not that the brothers seemed in any way sorry about their predicament, if the deep laughter that Bilbo could hear coming in through the kitchen window was any indication.

With a fond chuckle, the hobbit finished slicing up the strawberry cheesecake that he had spent most of the morning slaving over. It had been a real challenge, remembering his mother’s recipe, but the wonder in Thorin’s nephews’ eyes when he had mentioned the treat had been motivation enough. Of course, making the cake had required a trip to the market and therefore facing his neighbors for the first time since the wedding, but Bilbo had wisely asked Dwalin to accompany him. It was a bit selfish of him to use the dwarf’s impressive stature to his advantage; not to mention useless, since the fearsome warrior had somehow become a plaything for every fauntling under the age of six while Bilbo had been looking after Thorin. One did not strike up quite an imposing figure when they were adorned in flowers and grabbed onto by dozens of grubby little hands. But still, nobody had approached Bilbo that day.

Picking up the cake, the shireling checked the kettle but it would still be some time until the water was hot enough. So he deposited his knife on the counter, well out of reach of small wandering hands, before he headed outside.

Bilbo followed the noises coming from the backyard, closing Bag End’s front door after him. He took a deep, satisfying intake of breath and let sunshine caress his face as the smell of dirt and grass invaded his nostrils. It was hot and sunny out there, a regular day in the Shire all in all, but the dwarves had all been surprised.

Even in the most clement weeks of August, there was no such thing as a hot day under a mountain. Be it in Ered Luin or Erebor, the dark caves could never be considered really warm, what little heat the dwarves had came from the great forges carved deep in the core of the mountain. The Vale of Thráin, laid out at the feet of the Blue Mountains, was snowed in most of the year and even when it was not, the lingering chill encouraged anyone travelling its length to keep warm clothing close at hand.

As such the dwarves, with the exception of a sceptical Dwalin, gradually began shedding layer after layer of boiled leather and woollen undershirt – and by the Green Lady’s tomatoes, how could anyone walk around with so many of those, Bilbo could never understand – until they took to walking around in simple breeches and linen shirts when the Sun was at his brightest. As they grew more confident, some even rolled up their sleeves and pant legs, eager for the opportunity to bare flesh when they had always needed to keep it protected before.

And this was how Bilbo had found himself treating his first sunburnt dwarf. It had been Fíli, of course, the one with the fairest skin. The hobbit remembered clearly the prince’s grimace of pain as he applied lavender salve to bright red shoulders, the skin alarmingly hot under his fingers as Glóin stubbornly kept scratching at his burning arms and declaring it all the foulest elven trickery ever.

A particularly high-pitched squeal wrenched Bilbo from his memories and brought him back in his backyard. Worry only clouded his mind for the span of a second before childish giggles soothed him and his brisk pace turned relaxed again.

As Bilbo turned around the corner, he came within sight of the large expanse of green grass surrounded by hedgerows that served as a garden, a grazing spot for the ponies and a playground all at once. Oh, and a dining area as well, since Bofur and Glóin had finished carving the great log sitting near the back – a tall oak, the same kind as the Party Tree, but unlike its giant counterpart it had not withstood Fell Winter and had fallen at the first gust of wind of the following spring, dead on its roots – into a long table upon which they enjoyed as many meals as the weather would allow.

They had many little guests today but more than enough hands to entertain them. Fíli and Kíli were playing with the boys in the grass; they were too far away for Bilbo to understand completely what they were doing but the dwarven brothers were on all fours and each had two fauntlings fussing over them.

Leaning against the smial, Bofur was sitting amidst the flowers with Daisy and May, his hat tugged down firmly on one side to protect his sunburnt cheek from the afternoon Sun. Apparently the girls were trying to teach him how to weave flower crowns, and judging by the small heap on half-finished works sitting beside the miner, Bofur was not a very good student. Which never erased the happy grin he seemed to have plastered all over his features every time the little ones came to visit.

The last two children, Hamson and Halfred, were giving the ponies bits of bread under Bombur’s and Dwalin’s watchful supervision. For fear that one of the young ones might involuntarily spook one of them and end up hurt, Bilbo had asked the dwarves for a makeshift pen to keep the beasts, however good-natured they were, apart from the space the children were allowed to play in. The result was a simple rope drawn tight between trees but it was enough for Frodo and his friends to understand that they should not go any further on their own. Even Hamfast’s two eldest sons respectfully stayed one step away from the rope while they watched Glóin clean his mount’s dirty hooves.

Overall, the children had all grown accustomed to the dwarves, being quicker to give their trust than Bilbo had been when he had first met the Company. There was still one dwarf, however, that most only approached with wariness.

Sitting alone at the wooden table, Thorin was watching over the activities in the backyard with the shadow of a smile, his pipe firmly tucked between his lips. It was not lit, as smoke was considered hazardous to children’s health – or so the whole Company had told Bilbo with no small amounts of scolding when he had tried to enjoy a bit of Old Toby on the front porch – but Bilbo knew Thorin liked to chew on the short neck, if only for habit’s sake.

No little one was perfectly comfortable approaching the dwarven King, except perhaps Frodo who would willingly sit in Thorin’s lap for tea or let the dwarf carry him around, although he often protested that he was not a baby anymore. The day after Thorin’s waking, Bilbo had even caught the two of them in the middle of a nap in the garden, under the shade of his bay tree, Frodo lying flat out with his tummy pressed to Thorin’s and his head nestled in a sturdy chest. Only one of the dwarf’s hands had been enough to cover the whole of Frodo’s back, a protective gesture that had had Bilbo’s heart filling with warm butterflies. Even the drool slowly trickling from Frodo’s mouth onto Thorin’s fine blue shirt could have been considered cute.

Be that as it may, other children refrained from interacting with Thorin much. Unfortunately, they all had the dark-haired dwarf’s outburst at the wedding in mind, and could anyone blame them? Thorin could be downright terrifying if he put his mind to it, and although his ire had not been directed at them it had spooked the children within an inch of their lives. Adding to that his tussle with a warg and the fauntlings did not know how to act around him at all; as a result, they only rarely sought him out.

As if to prove Bilbo wrong, Daisy Gamgee rose from her seat in the grass beside Bofur and trotted over to where Thorin was observing his nephews. The girl was nervous, that much was obvious, but whatever the floppy-hated miner had whispered in her ear before she had gotten up had put a spring in her light step. She was clutching something in her small hands, but as she was facing away Bilbo could not see what it was.

Curious, the full-grown hobbit approached and reached an on looking Bofur at the same time Daisy did the dwarven King.

Thorin turned his head when his name was called – or at least, that is what Bilbo thought Daisy had said, since he was well out of hearing range – and seemed surprised to find the young girl standing next to him. The dwarf deposited his pipe on the table and twisted around in his seat until he was straddling the bench and facing his little interlocutor. Whatever went on between the two, Bilbo had not the faintest idea, but after only a few words Daisy nimbly climbed onto the bench thanks to two broad hands picking her up. Then, as she stood almost nose to nose with Thorin, the dwarf dipped his head and let Daisy put something in his hair.

When Thorin sat up straight again, what the young hobbit had been carrying in her hands was revealed. A delicate crown of flowers, white and blue, stood out against the dwarf’s dark hair like snow on a heap of coal. When next Thorin bowed his head, it was clearly to thank Daisy as he carefully cradled one of her little hands in his great paw and softly kissed its back to show his gratitude. The gesture brought a fit of giggles out of Daisy and a fond smile on Bilbo’s face.

Whoever said the children of Mahal were as cold and merciless as the stone they had been crafted from was a complete idiot.

“He’s a charmer, our King,” Bofur chuckled, keeping still as May weaved tiny flowers into his overgrown whiskers and his thick braids. The little girl huffed and pinned him with a dark look when his mouth’s movements pulled a few blossoms out, one that he attempted to deflate with sheepish eyes.

“That he is,” Bilbo agreed as Daisy hopped off the bench and jogged back to her sister’s side. “Be sure to wash your hands before tea, all right girls?”

He received two eager nods and one outraged look. “I’m no girl,” Bofur protested.

Bilbo took in the miner, which dark hair was beginning to look like a flower field in the middle of spring, only more colored, and gave an amused snort. “Whatever you say, Bofur.”

Leaving a sputtering dwarf behind, Bilbo resumed his walk and finally reached the oaken table where Thorin had slid his pipe back between his teeth and gone back to overseeing the biggest group of lads’ games.

“My, aren’t we looking fetching today,” Bilbo commented as he set the cheesecake down on the table, in a shaded spot and well away from wandering dwarven hands. “May I ask how you came by such a refined adornment?”

The glance Thorin levelled at him was both unimpressed and amused. “Save your breath. You will have a hard time arguing that your keen eyes saw nothing while you were only standing on the other side of the garden.”

Bilbo chuckled and took a seat next to his suitor. “I am caught, then. Although I am not lying, when I say you look very handsome. How did Daisy go about convincing you?”

“She said that she had been told I was a King, and in her storybooks Kings always wear crowns.” Bilbo’s soft cooing noise made Thorin shrug and look away. “She looked so happy, how could I say no?”

Bilbo nodded and pretended that Daisy’s smile had been the only reason behind Thorin’s indulging behavior, but he knew it had only played a minor part. Barring the fact that all dwarves, King included, had a huge weakness where children were concerned, this dwarf here had more reason than others to be in a content mood.

They had received word, the previous evening. Caräk had come back from a routine flight to the Blue Mountains bearing excellent news. Lady Dís and the rest of Thorin’s people were ready to depart and hoped, with Mahal’s protection, to be in the Shire in a week at most to resupply. Ever since Roäc’s son had announced the news, Thorin had been in such pleased dispositions that he seemed to smile at everything. It was his way to bounce up and down in exhilaration at the prospect of seeing his younger sister again, and Bilbo found it awfully endearing.

There was not much to dislike, after all, when he had Thorin helping with washing, taking care of Frodo and cooking – although that last one was done from afar and in small amounts, given Thorin’s uncertain past in the kitchen.

Bilbo decided to tease the King a little bit and nudged him with his elbow. “Out to stir love in young innocent hearts again, then?”

The miserable groan that followed the comment had Bilbo in stitches before he even saw the beseeching look Thorin threw his way. “Please… it is embarrassing enough as it is, there is no need to add anything.”

Maybe Bilbo had not been completely honest: they _had_ had visitors others than children, but they had not been particularly ill-willed. Quite the contrary, actually.

Thorin had not understood right away why there were so many ladies, some young and some less, stopping by Bag End only to drop flowers and baked goods. The dwarf must have chalked it up as yet another hobbit oddity that he was unaware of and accepted the attentions innocently enough. He had thanked the – allegedly – selfless souls personally and had even gone as far as compliment them on their kindness and their cooking skills.

One of them the dwarf had even accompanied back to her home himself, claiming that it was far too late for a young girl to wander the paths by herself and could Bilbo please come as well? ‘You wanted to stretch your legs before bed anyway’ had in reality been a very poorly-disguised ‘I am not sure I could find my way back on my own’ but Bilbo had said yes. And spent the entire trip back explaining to Thorin why the girl’s hopeful eyes had turned sour when it was decided Bilbo was to come along.

Even in the gloom of a dark night, it had been easy to figure out which shade of red Thorin’s cheeks were when he had realized that not only he had been flirted with for days, but that he had, in some way, flirted back.

“I do not understand,” the dwarf had huffed in bed afterward, curled into Bilbo’s side like an oversized cat. “What have I done to warrant those ladies’ interest?”

Bilbo had laughed then, ruffling dark hair, but he had sobered upon discovering that Thorin’s confusion was genuine. “You don’t understand how anyone with eyes could not fall for a handsome dwarf like you? You must be joking.”

At this Thorin’s chin had found the curve of Bilbo’s shoulder and nestled into it. “I… I have never been sought after in such a manner. It is the truth,” he had growled at Bilbo’s sardonic snort, tightening his big arms around the hobbit’s waist for emphasis. “I was not the picture of chivalry nor could I count on my appearance to gather such attention.”

“What is wrong with the way you look?” Bilbo had inquired, squirming to better accommodate Thorin’s head under his chin and still manage to stroke up and down his back.

“I do not know how Hobbits view me, but I am not considered very alluring by dwarven standards. Some even claimed that I was the ugliest of Thráin’s children and that it was a shame I would inherit the throne in my brother’s stead.”

“Charming,” Bilbo had stated simply, tugging a light sheet over the two of them so that they would not be surprised by the chill of the next morning.

Thorin had shrugged, the promise of imminent sleep making the movement sluggish. “Well, it is true that I have flaws. My beard, for one, is much too short for a Longbeard. I am too tall. My hair is unruly and is a pain to braid. My eyes are not very practical.”

“Your eyes are not… now what’s this nonsense? Your eyes are fine.”

“My eyes are blue. More easily hurt by sunlight and less fit for a life underground. I am the first blue-eyed King of the Line of Durin since Náin II and although it is not openly frowned upon, it is considered a weakness by most.”

“I think your eyes are beautiful,” Bilbo had claimed, patting Thorin’s shoulder reassuringly. “The rest of you is very nice as well, whoever says otherwise is a complete fool. Just please… don’t let a hobbit lass trick you into dinner or believe me you’ll never get rid of her.”

With a chuckle, Thorin had promised to follow his advice and sealed the deal with a drowsy kiss to Bilbo’s collarbone. After a muttered ‘goodnight’, the dwarf had promptly sunk into sleep.

However Bilbo had remained awake long after the first snores, legs tangled with Thorin’s and a beard tickling his chest through his nightshirt. With an oath to never let Thorin feel like an outcast, no matter how ridiculous the notion sounded, Bilbo had kissed his suitor’s brow and allowed sleep to take him as well. His only thought before slumber had enveloped him had been a wish that Thorin’s people would make it to Hobbiton in time for Midsummer’s Eve festival.

Needless to say that when Thorin had escorted Bilbo to the market the next morning, he had stuck close to his hobbit’s side and never missed an opportunity to make it obvious that he was spoken for.

“With any luck, your claim was staked clearly enough that those ladies’ attempts will stop,” Thorin said hopefully, following the flight of a flower as it detached itself from his crown and floated down to the surface of the table.

“My claim? You mean the fact that I spent the whole morning with you practically stepping on my feet and snarling at anyone who dared walk past us?”

“It sounds so mediocre when you are the one saying it.”

“Most importantly, it sounds like _you_ were the one staking a claim on me. But I found it sweet, in some weird… dwarven way. The look on that Bracegirdle lass’ face was priceless.”

Both males shared a few chuckles at the memory and fell silent, simply enjoying each other’s company in the comfort of the afternoon’s warmth.

Bilbo’s eyes roamed his garden, the cradle of his first childhood adventures, until his sight eventually landed on Thorin’s nephews and their small horde of mischief makers. The lads were still rolling about in the grass although there seemed to be a purpose to the somersaults.

“Do you happen to know what they are playing?” Bilbo asked Thorin just as Merry jumped on Kíli’s back. From where Bilbo sat, the faunt’s face looked very pale but maybe it was just the Sun.

“Their favorite game so far,” Thorin answered evenly, the corner of his mouth twisting into an almost smile. “It is called the Battle of Five Armies.”

Eyes widening, Bilbo blinked a few times and turned back to better observe the playing boys. “The… Battle of Five Armies.”

“Fíli and Kíli are stuffing their heads full of stories. Perhaps too much, if you were to ask me.” Thorin took a puff from his pipe, only to scowl when he remembered that the blasted thing was not lit. “It would appear that young Meriadoc is impersonating the white orc today.”

“The white…” After another good look at Merry, Bilbo gasped. “You mean he’s playing Azog? Wait, wait, is that flour on his face?”

“I think it is white clay. According to what Samwise says, Meriadoc’s mother has a fondness for pottery, it is safe to assume that he dug into her stores ere he came.” Thorin seemed to notice Bilbo’s distressed look and smiled. “Do not fear, clay is easy to remove once it is dry. I would not say the same for the mud the three other lads have dipped their faces in.”

If Bilbo had been gasping before, now he was almost gagging.

“Boys! Your faces!” he yelped, not caring if his voice resembled Lobelia’s at the moment for he could only think about his future brutal murder by Bell’s hand.

Frodo, Pippin and Sam turned around at the loud call and the full regalia of their caked mugs was revealed to Bilbo.

Sitting atop Fíli with a wooden stick held high in the air, Frodo had the frustrated look of a kitten failing to catch a mouse. “Uncle Bilbo! I was about to charge!”

“That’s all very well, but why are you lads covered in mud?”

At this the three boys looked affronted. “It’s not mud, it’s our beards! Can’t be proper dwarves without beards! Mister Dwalin said so.”

With a muttered curse directed at the massive dwarf and a hushed promise to have words with him in the evening, Bilbo sighed and made a vague gesture of dismissal when he was asked if he was done because they had a battle to win. “Bad enough that they must think of war as a game, but now they dirty themselves on purpose.”

“They are children. They are bound to recreate the stories they hear. I remember I often dipped my brother in soot to make him look like a goblin and nicked bits of copper from the smiths to make do as armor. The elation of replaying quests from bedtime stories’ heroes was well worth the resulting cuts and scolding.” Thorin wrapped a comforting arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, bringing him a fraction closer. “Their mothers know that. Be at ease, dearest.”

Bilbo sighed and dropped his gaze to the table, leaning into the one-armed embrace. It was a blessing to have Thorin by his side while Frodo stayed in Bag End. The hobbit had thought himself able to care after fauntlings, what with the amount of little nephews and cousins he had had to babysit over the years, but he had found out that there was a gap between telling stories to children to amuse them and actually look after them around the clock.

Young Hobbits being what they were, there was no need to fight for them to finish their plates, as Bilbo had often heard in the villages of Men. True, a bit of coaxing was required where greens were involved, but that did not set Frodo apart from the dwarves much – even Thorin occasionally glared at vegetables, mutters of ‘elf food’ quick to find their way to his lips. Bedtime was another battle, though. Bilbo had no idea that talking an excited fauntling into bed was even harder than convincing trolls that they should not eat you.

Then there was bath time… It made Bilbo shudder just thinking about it. He could never thank Yavanna enough for Thorin’s parental skills, acquired and honed while raising the two rascals that were his nephews.

What a tremendous task it must have been, too.

“Why are your nephews even walking on all fours?” Bilbo asked, absentmindedly watching the mock battle and noting that he did not have to search for his wooden spoons anymore, for they had been turned into weapons.

“They are mounts, from what I gathered it is a much more enviable position than Prince of Erebor,” Thorin commented, his hand tracing patterns on Bilbo’s far shoulder. “Fíli is a pony and as such must eat half an apple everyday lest he falls dead.”

Bilbo winced empathically. “They are making Fíli eat apples? Poor lad.” Here was the reason why the heir to the Lonely Mountain looked a bit green around the cheeks. “And Kíli?”

“Kíli is a warg, and since the young ones don’t know the first thing about a warg’s diet, thank Mahal, they have been feeding him cookies and ham.”

“Well, for once it seems that siding up with evil is… good gracious!”

Bilbo instinctively jumped to his feet when a particularly hard shove had Frodo falling off Fíli and hitting the ground. He rushed forward, but a sharp tug pulled him back and he turned to see Thorin clutching one of his suspenders.

He frowned but the dwarf shook his head. “Watch,” the King whispered.

To Bilbo’s surprise, Frodo did not dissolve into tears but merely stood, brushed his bruised knees and picked up his wooden stick again. “For Erebor!” the lad yelled before he charged at a blanching Merry – not that it was easy to tell under all that clay.

Bilbo sat back down with Thorin’s next tug, feeling quite the fool.

“You worry too much,” his suitor said lowly with a pat on his knee.

“Maybe dwarflings have bones of steel but I can assure you, fauntlings don’t,” the hobbit grumbled, shuddering in spite of his better judgement when Merry ‘stabbed’ Frodo with the blunt end of his wooden spoon and declared Orcs rulers of the land forever – or at least until next game.

Battles and weapons were soon discarded, however, when Bell stepped into the garden with the smelliest batch of cinnamon cookies to have ever graced the Shire with its existence. Tutting at the army of tiny and large fingers, Bilbo shooed all the little scoundrels inside to wash their hands and took the opportunity to retrieve a now boiling kettle. He poured the water into three big teapots that he had placed on a tray and asked the first child who exited the bathroom to carry the basket he had squeezed enough cups for everybody in.

Young Sam followed Bilbo outside, handling the basket as though it was a very fragile living being. The elder hobbit could not help but chuckle at the way Sam’s tongue peeked out of his mouth in focus.

“Next time Dwarves will win!” Frodo claimed from his seat in Thorin’s lap, his stern expression somewhat ruined by a stubborn smudge of mud across his nose.

“With such a fearless leader, they certainly will,” Thorin agreed, earning a toothy grin from his little burden. When he tried to wipe Frodo’s nose free of dirt with his thumb, however, the lad fussed.

Merry’s face was a disaster, but the little Brandybuck knew better than to fight Bell as she diligently cleaned his cheeks with a handkerchief. His muffled whine of ‘Can I be a dwarf next time?’ was lost amidst the rubbing.

After that everyone was so involved in the delicious food and honey-sweet tea that not a word was issued for a while. Between one bite and the next, Bilbo spared a moment to look up and take in the ragtag group gathered around the table.

Every child – with the exception of Halfred and Hamson, who certainly thought themselves too old for such a thing – had found a lap to enjoy tea in. As always Frodo had claimed Thorin as his; Bilbo could not pinpoint when, but in the last few days his ‘nephew’ had taken a great liking to the dark-haired dwarf and spent as much time as he could stuck to the older male’s side. Something that did not bother Thorin, thankfully.

Ever the cautious one, Sam had chosen soft-spoken Fíli as his personal dwarf cushion for tea. Daisy was in Bofur’s lap and May in Bombur’s, where the tiny girl seemed quite content sipping at her cup while sharing space with the dwarf’s prominent belly. Sitting on Dwalin’s and Glóin’s knees, Merry and Pippin were bickering over who would get to play the part of the dwarven leader in their next game, their recently-cleaned faces now smeared with blueberry jam. It was easy for adults to chuckle over that kind of childish antics, but Dwalin’s eyes were… almost adoring, as he observed the little ones. A very peculiar expression if there ever was one to grace the battle-hardened warrior’s features.

Bilbo’s heart swelled at the sight of all those souls, all those beings he had come to think of as dear friends – and even family for some – enjoying a summer afternoon together peacefully. He would miss those casual interactions when they departed for Erebor, where the occasions to have tea with more than three dwarrows at the same time would be few and far between.

He would just have to take what he could while it was still possible.

Dodging yet another of Kíli’s attempts to drag him over to his own lap, Sam reached for another blueberry tart while simultaneously asking his mother where his father was.

“Your dad is having tea with the Boffins over the hill,” Bell explained, nursing her still untouched cup of tea. “They’ve been blessed with twins this spring and have had their hands a bit full since then. Their garden was in dire need of a good weeding so your father went to help.”

Satisfied, Sam bit into his tart, but Bilbo frowned. There had been something off in Bell’s voice.

One side glance to Thorin established that the older male was thinking along those lines as well.

“Are you all right, Bell?” the dwarf asked tentatively. He had only been convinced to call the hobbit by her given name and not ‘Lady Bell’ or ‘Missus Gamgee’ two days prior, and it still felt strange.

The smile Bell levelled at Thorin would have looked strained even to a stranger’s eyes. “I am fine, Mist… Thorin. A bit short on sleep, perhaps, but I am fine.”

Thorin did not look convinced. “If you wish to rest for a while inside, I am sure it would be perfectly acceptable,” he drawled, glancing at Bilbo from the corner of his eye to gauge the truth in his words.

Bilbo wasted no time in nodding fiercely. “There would be no problem at all, Bell, I’ve just changed the bed linens this morning. If you want to take a nap-”

“Nonsense, the two of you,” Bell protested gently with a gesture that, although it was dismissive, revealed that her hand was trembling. “I’m quite all right. Now, Thorin, my Sam told me we will see more of your family soon?”

The change of topic was too brutal to be anything but a poorly-disguised diversion, but Thorin only considered the female hobbit for a handful of seconds before he answered. “Aye. My sister is meant to arrive at the end of the week along with those of our people who live in the Blue Mountains.”

“The end of the week? They will miss Midsummer’s Eve festival,” Bell said, a bit disappointed, but she shook herself quickly. “I would like to meet her, when she comes.”

“Mother will love you,” Kíli claimed around a mouthful of cheesecake and what would have been a brilliant smile under better circumstances. “She’s just like you! Well, to be honest she has a bit more beard and she is far much bossier than you are, but you will get along perfectly. And if you don’t, you can always win her over with your cinnamon rolls, they are terrific.”

Hums of approval echoed around the table and Bell gave a little smile. “Well, if she is anything like her brother and sons, I can’t wait to meet her.”

The comment had pink dots blooming on the dwarven brother’s faces and even Thorin could not hide a pleased smile. Bilbo grinned inwardly; he knew that his dwarf was unable to receive compliments and would often turn them around to throw them back in the flatterer’s face, for the sole reason that he did not believe in praises, but with Bell it was different.

With Bell, Thorin was inclined to smile and nod his thanks instead of getting his hackles up. It was refreshing, really, to see his usually guarded suitor so relaxed and open. Would the habit sink in and live on even after their return to Erebor? Bilbo certainly hoped so.

When Thorin’s pleased mien crumbled, however, Bilbo frowned.

“Bell, is something wrong?” the dwarf asked urgently, but softly so that he would not be heard by the other half of the table.

Bilbo turned his head around only to discover Hamfast’s wife supporting herself on her elbows, her cup forgotten and her features twisted in great discomfort. “I… I don’t know. Maybe I should lie down for a moment as you suggested,” she admitted in a small voice.

Faster than you could have said ‘second breakfast’, Thorin shifted Frodo from his lap to Bilbo’s and rushed to Bell’s side so promptly that his flower crown fell off in the process. It was sweet, honestly, how Thorin had taken it upon himself to watch over Bell when Hamfast was not around to do it himself. Every dwarf seemed to treat the pregnant hobbit with utmost care but Thorin was a dwarf on a mission whenever the soon-to-be mother – for the sixth time – wanted for anything.

Bilbo was not surprised that he had been the first to react.

“Come,” Thorin bid, holding out his arm for Bell to take. “I will show you to a bed.”

Bilbo looked on worriedly as Bell gave a little nod and grabbed Thorin’s forearm with both hands. When Frodo squirmed in his lap, the older Baggins ruffled his hair soothingly. “There’s a quilt in the dresser by our bed, if need be,” he told Thorin.

The dwarf nodded and supported Bell’s weight when she pulled herself to her feet. When she tripped, Thorin’s arms flew and seized her around the midsection to pull her tightly against his side.

Her following cry was loud enough to distract the rest of the table from Merry’s blabbers about his fishing skills.

Upon sighting his mother leaning on Thorin as though her legs were not strong enough to support her, Sam’s youthful features twisted into a mix of worry and surprise. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Pulling her face from Thorin’s chest after a few panting breaths, Bell gathered enough strength for a wavering smile. “Nothing, sweet pea. Everything is fine. If Thorin here,” and here Bell gave the dwarf’s shoulder an affectionate pat, “would be nice enough to give me a hand, you may just wake up a big brother tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	30. Marigold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean, this hasn't been updated in 3 months? Poppycock! Why, just last week, I... Oh. Right. 
> 
> There are not enough languages in Middle Earth to express how sorry I am, but as always, Life comes first. The bitch has a priority pass, can't help it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \-------
> 
> Shazara! - Silence!

“You cannot be serious,” Thorin deadpanned, unblinking.

The look Bell threw him was both amused and irritated. “This is my sixth child, Thorin, I dare say you can trust me on this.”

“But… but you told us you would not be due for another week,” the dwarf drawled, caught halfway between dread and bewilderment. “Or have I misheard?”

“Yes, well… this little one can’t wait another day, I’d say.”

Heavy silence draped itself over the large group of guests in Bag End’s back garden and Bilbo spared a moment to seal their faces in a drawer at the back of his mind to review on boring afternoons.

All children had some kind of food in their mouth or halfway there. Frozen in the middle of a particularly tasty bite of blueberry tart, Merry and Pippin had their blue eyes wide open and glancing at one another as though the way they should react had yet to be decided. Bilbo noted that most fauntlings wore similar expressions – save for Bell’s eldest sons who were certainly used to pregnancies and how they generally ended.

But if the young ones seemed unsettled, then the adults around them looked like they had just had their hearts freshly ripped from their chests.

Even the size of the enemy’s army at the gates of Erebor had not been enough to make Dwalin gape like that.

After a minute of heavy silence that seemed to stretch for hours, Bilbo cleared his throat in order to say something, anything to forestall the explosion of dread that he felt bubbling in the dwarven company.

Clearly, he was too late.

“The babe’s comin’! Clear the garden!” Bofur yelped, his cup of tea coming dangerously close to taking a flight to the other end of the backyard.

“Quick, find her a bed!”

“Make sure it’s a girl!” Daisy chirped, her grin big enough to slit her head in half.

“A knife! A knife to cut the cord!” Dwalin bellowed, hands already going through whatever utensils were there on the table – and flinging more than half of them to the ground in the process.

“Yeh knucklehead, that’s for after the babe’s born, yeh don’t have-”

“ _Shazara_!”

Thorin’s roar not only cleanly cut through Glóin’s sentence but also managed to still every dwarf and every hobbit in the garden. His thrown-off look from earlier was gone, replaced by a side of Thorin that Bilbo had not seen in a while: that of a level-headed commander. A King in charge.

In true regal fashion, but never relinquishing his hold on Bell’s waist, Thorin began throwing orders around.

“Glóin, Bombur, bring young masters Peregrin and Meriadoc back to their homes. Bofur, you run and find Master Gamgee, wherever he is. Fíli and Kíli, you two stay here and watch over Frodo, Samwise and his siblings, and no fooling around. Dwalin, come with me, we need to bring Bell home as soon as possible. Bilbo…” When his eyes came to rest on his hobbit intended, Thorin’s voice trailed off. As though he was not sure he could issue orders to this person in particular. “You… do whatever you deem wise.”

Bubbles of laughter tickled the back of Bilbo’s throat, but he steeled his features and gave a firm nod. “I’ll go fetch Asphodel, she delivered all of the siblings, she’ll know what to do.”

Thorin groaned, as though it pained him to have forgotten that they needed someone with some level of medical knowledge to help with the birth, before he nodded. After a few parting kisses and wishes for everything to turn out fine were exchanged, Thorin patiently waited until Bofur and his nephews had ushered everybody inside and Pippin and Merry were well on their way home – in spite of their insistent requests that it was not late and that they wanted to stay with their friends.

Then, the King of Erebor swiftly gathered Bell into his arms and adjusted her weight as best as he could. The motion was so quick that it caused Bilbo’s eyes to widen a tad – although he was well-used to dwarven strength, the weight of a heavily-pregnant hobbit was not something to be easily dismissed – and Bell to let out a surprised squeak as the female scrambled for a hold around Thorin’s thick neck.

“Apple blossoms, Thorin, you could’ve warned me!” she grunted.

“There is no time for that,” Thorin replied as Dwalin helped Bell situate herself better in the King’s arms. “We need to get you to your home as soon as possible.”

“Keep your little stunts up and I may just give birth right here and now!”

The shiver that ran down Thorin’s spine was not lost on Bilbo. “Please, do try to keep it in until we get you to a safe place and in the care of capable hands.”

“I’m not making promises,” Bell winced, probably bearing the brunt of a new wave of pain.

Any word of comfort Bilbo had on his tongue were forgotten when Dwalin knelt and began to growl and roar as fiercely as only a few bears could. His sudden wrath, it seemed, was directed somewhere above Bell’s knees and had the immediate effect of casting a silent spell over the garden.

While Bell seemed to be mildly shocked, Thorin for his part looked wholly unimpressed by his friend’s performance. The stare he levelled at the bald dwarf reminded Bilbo of the one the King would wear whenever his nephews acted like reckless dwarflings.

“What, pray tell, are you trying to do?” Thorin asked quietly, calmly, as only someone who was well-versed in handling ridiculous matters at crucial moments could.

Dwalin slowly rose to his feet and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Er… scarin’ the babe so it won’t come out yet?”

Hm. Well.

That was not even worth commenting on.

 

* * *

 

 

Finding Asphodel turned out to be easy enough. The old lady had been in her smial, up to her elbows in soapy water as she washed the dishes from tea.

Keeping up with Asphodel as she all but ran to her daughter’s house, though, that was another matter entirely.

“Hurry up, lad,” she barked over her shoulder as she navigated the dirty paths of Hobbiton with far too much grace and speed for somebody her age. By all means she should not be prancing ahead while Bilbo lagged behind.

Perhaps it had something to do with him carrying all of her – obscenely heavy, if anyone asked him – medical supplies.

“You know, I think you made a mistake,” Bilbo panted. How only a few days of lazying about in the Shire had chipped at his travel-induced stamina, the hobbit had no clue. “You may just have handed me your gardening bag _and_ a dead pony or two!”

“Save you breath, pup, we’re almost there!”

A few minutes and galleons of sweat later, the two of them found themselves crossing the low red gate of the Gamgees’ front garden. Wasting no time on feet wiping or any other mundane thing a proper Baggins should never overlook, they hurried past the front door.

They ran into Dwalin in the entrance hall. The tall dwarf had a glass of water in his hand and a confused, helpless look on his features. He reminded Bilbo of Thorin trying to find his way back to Bag End after a trip to the market, all lost eyes and slumped shoulders.

“Where is she?” Asphodel asked without so much as a ‘good afternoon’.

“This I’d like to know, too,” Dwalin grumbled. “Took her to the bedroom and Thorin sent me to get water, but now I can’t find m’way back.”

After a great exasperated sigh, Asphodel pushed her way past the burly dwarf and walked at a brisk pace down the main corridor with the two males hurrying after her. In hindsight, Bilbo figured that they would have eventually located Bell from her pained groans alone, but Asphodel’s knowledge of the Gamgee household was appreciated nonetheless.

Sweating and wincing, Bell was half-sitting, half lying upon her bed. Her curled toes sent a wave of sympathy over Bilbo who mentally thanked the Valar that he was not born a female and would never have to endure such an ordeal.

Kneeling at Bell’s bedside, Thorin alternated between patting her hand and untangling covers from her twisting feet.

“You took your time,” he growled when he heard Dwalin’s heavy footsteps. “Did you go all the way down to the Water?”

“Couldn’t find my way back from the kitchen,” Dwalin replied with a shrug, walking to the opposite side of Bell’s bed and carefully handing her the glass of water for her to sip at. “Somethin’ yeh can relate to, I’m sure.”

“I fail to see what you mean by that.”

“Boys,” Bell panted, putting her glass down on the bedside table before she tipped it and splashed water everywhere. “If you’re going to squabble, I’d rather you did it elsewhere.”

“They are leaving anyway,” Asphodel cut in, startling Thorin who had been entirely focused on the pregnant hobbit. “I have no need for faint-hearted males in this room, you can all wait outside. If this one’s anything like his siblings, this should not take long.”

Bilbo noticed how Thorin and Dwalin tensed up at being called ‘faint-hearted’. For one second, they looked like they were going to argue, but when Asphodel opened her bag of medical supplies and pulled out a tool that suspiciously looked like pliers, the two dwarves’ eyes widened.

“Mahal’s blessing to you and the little one,” Thorin said with one final pat to Bell’s hand before he and Dwalin hastily retreated from the room.

Bilbo shook his head and was about to offer his help, but the piercing look he received from Asphodel killed the words in his throat. “Well, I… we’re just outside if you need us,” he mumbled instead.

A few supportive words to Bell and Bilbo walked out of the room, carefully closing the door after him. He heaved a deep sigh, glancing up to see that Thorin and Dwalin were standing in the hall as well. The two dwarves looked distraught and Bilbo forced himself to remember that births were not that common for Durin’s folk; it was only natural that the process was some kind of life-or-death trial to them.

“Well, we’ll just grab a couple of chairs and wait nearby,” Bilbo said with as much self-confidence as he could muster – he himself had never been directly involved in any birthing process. Mister Maggot’s pig certainly did not count. “Asphodel may need us to bring her supplies so this is where we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon, perhaps even the evening. That’s to say, _I_ am staying,” Bilbo corrected. “You two have done much already, if you want to go back to-”

“We are not leaving until the young one is born,” Thorin said firmly while Dwalin furiously shook his head. “Should it last until dawn we will not desert Bell Gamgee.”

As the two males exchanged a determined look, Bilbo could not help but roll his eyes. If he ever wrote a book, he would be sure to put a thing or two about the stubbornness of Dwarves and their need to blow everything out of proportion, be it a victory feast or waiting in a hall.

Within the first hour, Asphodel poked her head through the door to ask – the less polite but correct term would be ‘request’ – for clean linens and warm water. Aided by his memories of the Gamgee household, Bilbo quickly navigated the smial to find the desired supplies. For the two determined dwarves on his furred heels, the search was a quest, and the linens and water were amongst Erebor’s most precious treasure. At least it looked like it, from the way Thorin was cradling the white sheets as though they were the Arkenstone itself and Dwalin carefully balanced the basin in his big paws.

Asphodel snatched the supplies and closed the door again. After that, only pained groans emanated from the room and the three males sat on their stools, back against the wall, as they waited to be called upon again.

“Will Missus Goodchild be all right on her own?” Thorin asked, breaking the silence. “Shouldn’t there be somebody else in there to help her?”

Bilbo tilted his head to the side. “Well, when Hamfast arrives he’ll be allowed inside, if he wishes. But he still have scars from little Sam’s birth where Bell’s nails dug into his wrist, so I don’t think he will.”

“Nobody else? No healer, no midwife?”

“No, there is no need for that, unless there’s a serious problem.” The disbelief in Thorin’s eyes made Bilbo frown. “What? Giving birth is a natural process, not some kind of ugly disease, I’ll have you know. A crowd of healers would be useless.”

“I never said it was, but…” Thorin paused for a moment, probably thinking about the right order for his next sentences. “A dwarrowdam giving birth is counted as one of the rarest occurrences among our folk. When it does happen, nothing is left to chance, as such anyone who can help in any way offer their services. When my sister Dís had Fíli, it was the first birth in five decades for my people. The hall in front of her chambers was packed.”

Bilbo almost rolled his eyes; again, blown out of proportion. Still… “Five decades?” the hobbit repeated.

Thorin nodded and his gaze slowly fell to the floor. “After Smaug destroyed Erebor, we wandered homeless for many years. Those who were pregnant during our exile either miscarried or gave birth to still-born babes. Many died themselves from the exertion and the lack of food. Even when we settled in the Blue Mountains, nobody was strong enough to bear a child, and we had so much to do with our time anyway that it was pushed into the background altogether. Until Fíli.”

Bilbo shifted his weight on his stool. Once more, his tongue had lashed out and possibly hurt his dwarves’ feelings. Just because each month or so welcomed a new fauntling in the Shire didn’t mean that it was the same for the rest of Middle Earth.

To dissipate Thorin’s gloomy look, Bilbo tried to steer the conversation toward more pleasant waters. “You never did tell me about your nephews’ births,” he smiled.

Thorin’s head rose and Bilbo almost giggled at the glint of life in those blue eyes of his. “They began this life the same way they would do everything: loudly and causing far too much ruckus.” Thorin chuckled to himself. “I was in the forges when Víli came to find me. At the time we were still treading warily around one another, you can imagine I was surprised to see him stumble over to me, sweating and gnawing at his nails. He told me Dís had gone into labor and he was clueless as to what he should do.”

“She’d kicked him out of the room, too,” Dwalin felt important to add.

“Yes. He was terrified, and to be truthful I felt a bit anxious myself, but I led him back to the room he shared with Dís and we waited most of the night next to the door, as we are doing now. I cannot say for certain but I think this was when we started tolerating and even appreciating each other.”

Dwalin guffawed. “What he’s not tellin’ yeh is that that ‘brotherly love’ began when they both fainted at the same time that day and knocked their heads together!”

Thorin sheepishly scratched his cheek when Bilbo’s widened eyes focused on him. “I may have been a little… distressed by the armful of bloody linens that were carried out of the room at some point. So was Víli and, well…”

“You _fainted_? Now that’s brilliant!”

The three males’ heads sharply turned to the end of the hall where the front door was.

Surrounded by the bunch of fauntlings that had been left under their care, Fíli and Kíli were walking up to where they were sitting. They were followed by a panting and red-faced Hamfast, who barely acknowledged them before he dove into the master bedroom. Bilbo could hardly blame him.

“And what are you all doing here?” he asked instead, raising one quizzical eyebrow at Fíli who had a large parcel in his arms.

It was not the blond dwarf but an excited Frodo who chirped: “We made sandwiches, Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo blinked and automatically searched for a window. The light that filtered through was indeed a far cry from the bright afternoon Sun they had left at tea and betrayed the beginning of the evening. “Is it dinnertime already?”

“Well past it, in fact,” Fíli nodded, giving up his parcel to Frodo’s outstretched arms and watching as the boy trotted over to Thorin, Dwalin and Bilbo. “We ate at Bag End but the children wanted to bring you a little something. They made those themselves.”

Frodo happily deposited the parcel in Bilbo’s lap and unwrapped it. Inside sat ten to fifteen oddly-shaped sandwiches with bits of cheese and tomatoes sticking out. The bread had been a bit compressed by clumsy but well-meaning young hands and the cucumber had not been peeled, but the attention brought a fond smile to Bilbo’s lips.

“It’s lovely, little sweetlings, thank you very much,” the hobbit said gently, ruffling Frodo’s hair.

As Thorin and Dwalin thanked the children in turn and gratefully picked up a sandwich – their stomachs had begun to growl as soon as the treats had been sighted – the Gamgee siblings disappeared only to come back with cushions and blankets which they quickly spread on the ground to flop upon.

“Any problem?” Fíli asked, obediently sitting down between Daisy and May when the little girls pulled on his hands.

“None that we have been informed of,” Thorin supplied around a tasty mouthful, adjusting Frodo in his lap.

Just as he said those words, a noise that strongly resembled that of a fatally-wounded animal floated through the door. Instantly, all dwarven heads shot up, alert and worried. Bilbo put his hands up to placate them. “It’s all right! It’s all right. Birth-giving has never been a pleasant ordeal but it doesn’t last for long. We will be called upon if something goes wrong.”

“Was that Mom?” Sam asked worriedly from his sitting spot next to Kíli. “Who is she shouting at?”

“Nobody, Sam,” Bilbo answered when no one else did. He felt the first tendrils of an embarrassed blush creep up his neck but he carried on. “You see, for your little brother or sister to be born, your mother must push them out of her belly and she is shouting because it hurts to do that.”

“It hurts a lot?”

“It… no, not that much, don’t worry.”

At this moment an even louder scream sounded from the master bedroom, throwing Bilbo’s reassurances down the drain and painting horrified looks on the children’s faces.

“I’m never having babies!” Daisy cried out, clutching Fíli’s sleeve in her hands.

“Me neither!” Frodo agreed.

The young Baggins’ outburst made the adults in the hall chuckle and in spite of his insistent questions, nobody told him what was so funny.

As hours passed, childish chatter died down to be replaced by soft snores and the occasional shift of blankets. Frodo had long since dozed off against Thorin’s chest, the exertion of a day’s worth of games finally catching up to him. The King had one arm around the boy’s tiny frame and the other between his head and the wall to cushion it.

The two eldest Gamgee boys had fallen asleep against one another, their backs resting against Dwalin’s legs. On the floor, Fíli and Kíli slept entangled in blankets and small limbs that belonged to Daisy, May and Sam. From time to time, as the brothers moved, a child would come into contact with a prickly beard and move away from it with a small whine.

It was only well after midnight that the door of the master bedroom opened to let Hamfast through.

Bilbo immediately stood up. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin shake out of his half-doze and sit straighter on his stool while carefully manoeuvring Frodo in the crook of his shoulder. “How are they?” he asked softly so he would not rouse the sleepers.

Hamfast’s smile was tired but happy. “They are fine. The Missus’ lost a fair bit of blood but she’ll recover. I have another daughter.”

Bilbo grinned widely and gave Hamfast a hug that was warmly returned. “Congratulations, Hamfast,” he whispered, squeezing his friend to his chest. “Another lucky little one in your loving family.”

Hamfast nodded and quickly swiped the back of his hand over his eyes to get rid of the wetness there.

Thorin rose to his feet and deposited Frodo in a nest of blankets next to Samwise. The faunt let out a whine of protest but otherwise kept sleeping soundly. The King of Erebor then stepped up to Hamfast and grabbed his shoulder; Bilbo was pleased to see that the gesture was gentle enough not to hurt his neighbor and Hamfast accepted it readily, not recoiling as he would have a few days earlier.

“May Mahal always watch over your daughter and protect her from harm,” Thorin said solemnly, giving a small bow.

Hamfast gave a genuine smile and surprised both Thorin and Bilbo when he clasped the dwarf’s shoulder as well. “Speaking of which, could you come and see her? You can come if you want too, Bilbo.”

Thorin hesitated, but after a glance at his intended he nodded and allowed Hamfast to lead him into the master bedroom. Bilbo quickly shared a look with a drowsy Dwalin who only gave a half-nod to assure him that things would be fine, that he would watch over the sleeping children. Or at least Bilbo hoped that it meant that.

It was dark and quiet within the bedroom, with only two lamps and the sound of trickling water where Asphodel was washing her hands. Bilbo’s eyes were automatically drawn to the bed where an exhausted but serene-looking Bell was holding a small bundle.

“Come closer,” she beckoned softly.

Bilbo gave an uncertain Thorin a little nudge at the small of his back and the dwarf walked closer to the bed. His big hands were crossed behind his back as though he was a clumsy child in a pottery workshop, curious yet very afraid of breaking something. The hobbit gave his suitor a soothing pat on the forearm and finally took a closer look at the newest addition to the Gamgee family.

The little girl was impossibly tiny, the size of a small pumpkin and as smooth as one save for a tuft of blond hair on top of her skull. Her eyes were firmly closed and the small fingers of her visible hand were clutching at the blue blanket.

“Meet Marigold Gamgee,” Bell smiled, adjusting a corner of the blanket around her daughter.

“She is beautiful,” Bilbo breathed and Thorin nodded. “Daisy and May will be ecstatic, they were hoping for a little sister.”

“That they were,” Hamfast chuckled as he sat down beside his wife. When Bell gave him a smile and a little nudge, Hamfast’s grin grew again, if such a thing was possible. “We’d have something to ask you, Mister Thorin.”

Apparently Hamfast was not ready to discard the ‘Mister’ yet, but that did not seem to unsettle Thorin more than the hobbit’s actual words. “To ask me?” he repeated.

Again, husband and wife shared a knowing look and at Hamfast’s nod, Bell spoke up. “We would like you to be Marigold’s Guardian.”

A wave of surprise crashed over Bilbo, soon to be replaced by a puff of joy. Hamfast and Bell were doing Thorin great honor with their request and would contribute to cement the acceptance of Dwarves in Hobbiton. The Master of Bag End turned to face the King of Erebor, expecting gratitude at being trusted so; yet only confusion appeared on Thorin’s features.

“Forgive me,” the dwarf said, “but what is a Guardian?”

Bilbo could only blink incredulously. Surely… “You don’t know what a Guardian is?” At Thorin’s shake of the head, Bilbo uncomfortably glanced at Hamfast and Bell. What ought to have been a happy moment was rapidly turning awkward. “It’s… a bit of a traditional thing. When a baby is born, the parents choose a Guardian for him or her. In case something happens to the parents before the child comes of age, the responsibility of caring for the child falls to the Guardian. Of course it’s more of an honorary title, since parents don’t die that often in the Shire, but it is still a mark of trust.”

It was somewhat strange to explain this all in front of the very persons who had asked Thorin to be Marigold’s Guardian, but it would be unheard of for a dwarf to simply accept something without first having it explained in depth to him. This just would not do.

“You would have me… as a Guardian for your newborn daughter?” Thorin asked, still incredulous but now with a shade of something like amazement. As though he could not believe he had heard right.

The smile Bell flashed him outshone the few candles in the room. “I told you I would find a way to thank you for saving Sam. Well, here it is, if you want it of course.”

At this Thorin looked a bit affronted. “I would never dream of refusing the honor. Of course I will be Marigold’s Guardian, I swear on my life that I will protect her from harm to the best of my abilities. I-”

“One thing I forgot to tell you was, usually when someone accepts to be a Guardian they just say ‘thank you’ and maybe extend an invitation for tea,” Bilbo cut in with a little groan. “They don’t launch themselves into endless lectures.”

“I thought the moment called for some solemnity,” Thorin argued gruffly, but there was no hiding the amused undertone.

“Well, think again, you lump.”

“Do not disrespect me in front of my ward!”

 

* * *

 

 

“I have seen my share of hilarious sights in my years,” Bilbo chuckled while they walked back to Bag End. “But that face you pulled when Hamfast put Marigold in your arms? Priceless. Simply priceless.”

Thorin snorted and gently shifted a sleeping Frodo against his shoulder. “She is much smaller than Fíli and Kíli when they were babes, and they are the only newborns I ever held. You can understand I was caught off guard.”

“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin and King Under the Mountain, terrified of a tiny baby. That’s the stuff legends are made of, I tell you.”

“Stop cackling, halfling, you will wake Frodo,” Thorin growled good-naturedly.

Bilbo spared a glance at the fauntling that was happily drooling away on Thorin’s tunic, his jaw so slack that you could have fit a whole apple in his mouth. It was very unlikely that he would be roused by noises that were only slightly louder than average. “If that boy is anything like his father, nothing short of a dragon’s roar will wake him. Or the smell of breakfast.”

Thorin looked up at the stars nailed high in the dark skies. “Breakfast… I wager that is not very far off, now.”

Bilbo inspected the sky as well. True enough, the night had settled over Hobbiton long ago and was few hours away from yielding to the summer Sun. There would be fewer mouths to feed at breakfast in the morrow, since Fíli and Kíli had been abandoned at the Gamgee household to their sleeping devices, but still… Bilbo would have little sleep before it was time to get up and start cooking.

But there was no way he would leave preparing breakfast to those boisterous bulls that called themselves Dwarves of Erebor.

“Walking at night in the Shire really is something peculiar,” Thorin said suddenly as they slowly made their way up to Bagshot Row. “I already felt it when I first came to Bag End in search of a burglar. It’s warm, soothing, and above everything it feels… safe. No wonder children are allowed to stay outside late on some occasions.”

“Well, we are peaceful folk, living in a peaceful land,” Bilbo shrugged.

“Still, this is enjoyable.” Frodo gave a little grunt but a reassuring pat on the back from Thorin settled him. “We should take midnight walks more often.”

“I’m not sure… last time we did, I was pissed off, you were stalking me and in the end you tried to break my teeth through kissing.”

The words were meant as a light jibe, a joke which aim was to alleviate what had transpired between the two of them on the night of Adelard Took’s wedding, but when Thorin suddenly fell silent Bilbo knew that he had made a mistake. One look at the dark features and tight-lipped expression on the King’s face only confirmed it.

Quick, something to say!

“You know, all things considered it would not have been so bad, if I hadn’t been so mad at you,” Bilbo said tentatively, flashing a hopeful smile when Thorin’s head perked up curiously. “In fact I would not mind trying it out again, just to be sure.”

Thorin certainly had no right to look so downright charming with his nose scrunched up in confusion. “Let us be clear: you want me to stalk you in the night and…”

“And when we reach Bag End, there might be a surprise waiting for you after we put Frodo to bed.”

Had they been able to, Thorin’s ears would have been standing on end, but the dwarf’s body language was explicit enough to tell Bilbo that yes, the prospect sounded quite interesting indeed.

In a heartbeat, Frodo found his way into Bilbo’s arms, pushed there by a smirking dwarf King who hurried a few steps back on the path. The golden-haired hobbit chuckled and almost warned him not to get lost, but that would somewhat kill the mood so he simply adjusted Frodo’s dead weight in his arms and kept walking.

After a few seconds Bilbo took a peek over his shoulder. He didn’t spot Thorin right away but the bearded face that was spying from behind a high box tree nearly tore a frantic laugh out of him. Trust the dwarf to take his role seriously! Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek and kept walking as though nobody was following him; it was rather amusing to know that he was being tracked by someone far stronger than he was but still was not in danger.

Arousing, even.

Those were very, very improper thoughts to have with a child so close, but it could not be helped. Every time Bilbo glanced back at Thorin, the bigger male was either hiding – or trying to – or walking with his hands clasped behind his back with the roguish air of the cat that stole the bowl of cream. Bilbo felt every bit the prey followed by the feral predator and it sent shivers of excitement down his spine.

All too soon, Bag End was in sight. As well as someone Bilbo did not expect to find on his doorstep.

“Fortinbras?” Bilbo asked incredulously when he came to his gate, all thoughts of playing pretend flying out the window.

Fortinbras Took, son of Isumbras Took and cousin to Bilbo Baggins, sprang from the bench in Bag End’s front yard. He had obviously been asleep. “Bilbo! I was waiting for you. Didn’t hear you coming.”

“I see that. Though I’m surprised, what does the Thain could want with me at such a late hour?” Bilbo asked just as Thorin caught up to him and came to stand at his side. “By the way, this is Thorin Oakenshield, my suitor."

The words, even as they tumbled out of Bilbo’s mouth without a second thought, felt odd. But there was no way in Arda that he would make the same mistake twice. The large hand at the small of his back was a nice bonus, too.

Fortinbras nodded hesitantly in Thorin’s general direction. He seemed hesitant, embarrassed even, and Bilbo noticed that his shirt was only half-buttoned and not properly tucked into his pants. His brown hair was sticking out in every direction, were it on his head or on his feet. In all his years as Thain, Bilbo had never seen his cousin so unkempt, never mind the lateness of the hour.

A tingle of fear nipped at Bilbo’s heart. Something bad must have happened.

“Fortinbras? What is wrong?” he asked with as much confidence as he could muster.

“We… I have received word, from the Master of Buckland,” the Thain began slowly and Bilbo frowned. What could his uncle Gorbadoc Brandybuck want? “The messenger arrived about an hour ago, he came as soon as he knew…”

“Knew what? Fortinbras, what is going on?”

The Thain released a deep sigh and his green eyes finally resolved to meet Bilbo’s hazel gaze. He held it until his sight slid down to the sleeping faunt in the hobbit’s arms and Fortinbras cracked at the edges. In a choked voice, the truth blurted out.

“Primula and Drogo, they… they are dead, Bilbo.”

 

 

 


	31. The Mud Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life : do you have what I told you to bring?  
> Me : yeah...   
> Life : all right then! Here! *holds out dream job*  
> Me : .... *gives away time for writing*
> 
> You won't hear me complain too much, though :) I am not abandoning this story, I'm taking it much farther, but only when I have some time!

 

The last time Bilbo’s blood felt this cold, there had been a furious fire drake glaring down his snout at him.

“D-dead?” he repeated, and had his ears not been ringing he would have heard how dumb he sounded. “But when… how?”

“Just yesterday, it seems. They… workers were repairing the Brandywine Bridge so they went south to the Bucklebury Ferry, but… I don’t know if it was knocked over or taking on too much water but it sank.” Fortinbras racked a shaky hand through his dishevelled hair and his unshed tears glinted in the moonlight. “They were f-found near Buckland in the evening. I’m so sorry, Bilbo, I… the lad…”

Frodo.

Bilbo sadly looked down at the innocent child nestled in his arms. Poor boy, he did not deserve this. Nobody did, of course, but especially not sweet, always-smiling Frodo.

“Let’s go inside,” Bilbo said, willing his voice not to crack just yet. “I would like to put him to bed before we speak of this further.”

They cautiously made their way inside, aware from the peace and quiet that everyone in Bag End was asleep already. When Thorin offered to make some tea, Bilbo gave an absentminded nod.

The fauntling in his arms probably weighed no more than a big bag of flour, yet Frodo felt heavier than a mountain troll when Bilbo deposited him in his bed in the large guestroom, between Fíli and Kíli. The older hobbit tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind a small ear and mechanically gave the boy’s temple a gentle swipe with his thumb.

Bilbo quickly tore himself from the restful sight of the sleeping fauntling. Lest he broke down.

He found Fortinbras and Thorin sitting at the kitchen table, empty cups in front of them as they waited for the kettle to boil. Lost as he was in his thoughts, Bilbo did not even notice that Thorin had pulled out mismatched cups from different sets and had extended the outrage to the teaspoons.

Though still a bit shaken, Fortinbras seemed to have gotten a hold on himself and was having a whispered discussion with Thorin, who gave more nods than verbal answers. When Bilbo entered the kitchen, both males stopped conversing and turned to the master of Bag End.

Bilbo didn’t quite know how to begin, so he simply said: “He’s asleep. I left him with Kíli and Fíli.”

Fortinbras nodded – although Bilbo was almost certain that he had no idea whose dwarves those names belonged to – and started fiddling with his blue spoon. Thorin gave a soft grunt of acknowledgment and scooted over to free a space on the bench to his right. Bilbo gladly sat down on the offered spot with a mutter of thanks, a weak smile briefly crossing his lips when a warm dwarven hand began stroking the small of his back comfortingly.

Silence then draped over the kitchen. Nobody knew what to say, how to express with accuracy the way they felt at the moment.

No sound came to break the fog of uneasiness until the kettle gave a rather loud signal that the water was ready to be poured. Before Bilbo could so much as get up, however, Thorin was already grabbing the burning kettle bare-handed – Yavanna’s sweet gardens! Dwarves may withstand heat more than other creatures but Thorin could still grab a tea towel, if only to spare Bilbo’s heart.

“What will happen to him?” Bilbo blurted out as Thorin filled their cups, taking extra care not to spill any of the boiling water. The question was useless; he knew. He knew but… how on Arda could this work out?

The Thain politely thanked Thorin and gave Bilbo a curious look. “Well, our laws say that he is to be taken in by his next of kin or, if he has one, his Guardian.”

“Drogo’s father lives in Hobbiton,” Bilbo cut in quickly, nervously tracing the edge of his cup with one finger.

“Fosco’s much too old to care after such a young child, especially with his wife’s death still fresh in his mind.”

“The Brandybucks, then. I’m surprised they didn’t contact you yet, since they probably learned the news before we did.” Oh, he was _so_ dodging this. Against his better judgement, he was avoiding the heart of the conversation.

Fortinbras began to frown. “It is a possibility, but they already have a lot of children to look after, most of them younger than Frodo.”

“All the more friends to play with, then.”

Thorin was watching the exchange with confused eyes but never dared to interrupt. The dwarf instead nursed his steaming cup with hands too large to handle such a fragile item and waited silently. Bilbo was sure that the King sensed something was wrong and he felt a pang of sympathy for his suitor who was left in the dark.

“Look, Bilbo, I didn’t mean to impose anything on you,” the Thain sighed, his tea forgotten. “The lad seemed to have taken a shine to you, that’s all. Our laws are what they are, but if you refuse, I could write something-”

“I am not,” the mighty Dragonriddler groaned pathetically, “ _refusing_ , not just yet, but you have to let me sort out my thoughts. It’s… it’s highly unexpected and it comes at very bad time to… yes, it’s a very bad time.”

At some point in the conversation, Thorin had probably gotten frustrated enough to voice his puzzlement. “Excuse me, what exactly is there to ‘refuse’? Is there something I should be made aware of?”

Bilbo sighed. “With Frodo’s parents dead, the lad should go with his Guardian for his upbringing, unless it is agreed that another member of his family should take him in instead.”

“This much I understood, thank you. It seems rather simple to me. What is the problem?”

“Thorin… I am Frodo’s Guardian.”

Thorin’s blue eyes widened a fraction as understanding dawned on the monarch’s face. “Oh.” It was promptly replaced with confusion again, though. “Again, I fail to see where the problem lies.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo sputtered, blinking stupidly.

“If what you told me about the status of Guardian at the Gamgee household is true, then the way forward leaves no place for misunderstanding: you are to take Frodo under your protection and care after him.”

Bilbo could only gape, flabbergasted beyond words. How… how could that insufferable dwarf simply state those facts without even the slightest hint of hesitation? The situation was _not_ simple and did _not_ call for basic logic.

“In case you have forgotten already – and I will forgive you if you have, let’s not forget that you are a thick-headed dwarf – we have a mountain to return to,” the hobbit grunted. He hadn’t wanted to speak of this in front of the Thain, who would certainly spread the news that Bilbo Baggins was leaving the Shire for good first thing in the morning, but there was no time for such considerations. “Frodo would be too young to travel and even if we did find an arrangement, I can’t impose the lifestyle of Erebor on him. I will not make an outcast out of him by dragging him far from the Shire to live like a dwarf.”

Spending his life in Erebor was one thing. Bilbo was his own hobbit and more than old enough to make his own decisions, than you very much. But Frodo? Frodo was barely able to decide which dessert was his favorite, he could not reasonably be asked where he wanted to spend the next decades of his life. Sure, the boy could be curious about the Lonely Mountain and follow the dwarves out of excitement, but who could predict whether or not the interest would one day fade, giving way to homesickness and regret?

On another note… Bilbo did not know the first thing about raising a child.

“The lords in your Council may accept my presence in Erebor because I helped you lot retrieve it, but another hobbit? That would be pushing it.”

Thorin shifted his weight on his seat, his expression unreadable. “Is living like a dwarf so revolting?” There was no bite, no edge to his voice, only concern and carefulness.

“Don’t put words in my mouth, I never said that. It’s just… I can’t force this kind of lifestyle on him, no more than I can impose a young boy on Erebor. It would not be right.”

“This should not matter,” Thorin shrugged. “If you truly accepted to be Frodo’s Guardian when he was born, then your way forward is clear. The Bilbo Baggins I know would never go back on his word or escape responsibilities. You have too much honor for that.”

Bilbo groaned and buried his face in his hands. Perfect. Now his _honor_ was thrown in on top of everything. Confounded Dwarves.

A warm, familiar weight on his shoulder had him peeking out from between his palms and into the solid blue gaze of Thorin. “As I have already told you, children are very precious for Dwarves. Nobody will look down upon you bringing Frodo to live in Erebor, should you wish to.”

“This is risky business, talking for everybody,” Bilbo mumbled. “You can’t speak on the whole of Erebor’s behalf, you overconfident dwarf.”

“I will have a word with the King, then,” Thorin supplied with a small smile. “I know him well.”

Bilbo sent back a wavering smile of his own, but it was short-lived. “I… I have to think about it. It’s all happening too quickly and I don’t want to make decisions I may regret. The last time I did, I ended up fighting giant spiders and chatting with a fire drake.”

“Did you? Now that would be a tale worth hearing.”

Fortinbras politely cleared his throat to remind the other two of his presence before they strayed off topic for too long. “So… will you take him in?” the Thain asked carefully. “Or should I send a message to the Thain of Buckland?”

“No! I mean, no… not yet,” Bilbo mumbled, embarrassed by his initial outburst. “I need to think about it. For now Frodo may remain in Bag End, until I figure a way to work this out. Thank you, Fortinbras, for coming to Bag End so late at night. You should go home, your wife is probably worried to death about you.”

Fortinbras gave a serious nod, downed his cup of tea as quickly as hobbit etiquette allowed – heat was probably the least of his worries, given how much time they had spent in the kitchen – and let Bilbo lead him back to the front door.

“Goodnight Bilbo, Master Dwarf,” Fortinbras said quietly. He mechanically reached at his side for a hat he didn’t find and sighed, racking a weary hand through his disheveled hair. “You are always welcome to come and see me, at any time.”

“I know. Goodnight, Fortinbras.”

The second the green round door closed on the Thain’s retreating figure, Bilbo’s whole body sagged a bit. His shoulders slumped and his back lost some of its stiffness, as though Fortinbras had taken the last of the Baggins’ energy with him. For a fleeting moment, Bilbo really felt the combined weight of all those years behind him, dragging him down and painting his once so sharp mind a dull shade of grey. How was it that he had grown so tired?

A warm presence at his back brought Bilbo back to Arda. He welcomed the strong arms around his waist with an acknowledging noise and gratefully sank back into the solid wall of his suitor’s chest. “This is a bit too much for a single day,” he whispered, idly running one finger down the length of Thorin’s left forearm.

The bearded chin at the back of his head gave a silent nod.

It was true, really. For any living being the day would have been overtaxing, even more so for a simple hobbit of the Shire. First the stress of Marigold’s birth, then the joy of seeing Thorin accepting the honor of being a Guardian. And now Bilbo had to decide quickly whether or not he should take little Frodo under his wing and raise him as his own. How could he do this? He could not even think of a way to explain it to the boy!

_Good morning Frodo! Here’s some breakfast. By the way, how would you like to live halfway across Middle Earth in a mountain full of dwarves now that your parents are dead…_

Oh, sweet Yavanna. Drogo and Primula were dead.

With everything else, Bilbo had not even stopped once to fully realize this.

He would never get to see his cousins again. He would not live another fishing trip with Drogo on a sunny afternoon. Primula’s radiant smile was forever gone from this world. Their smial would never ring with their laughter again.

The tears were there before Bilbo could do anything to stop them. In a matter of seconds he was sobbing openly in Thorin’s shirt, clutching the dwarf’s form close as hiccups of grief shook his whole body.

The hobbit cried for hours, or it might as well have been only minutes, for all the attention he gave the outside world at that moment. When he peeked up from Thorin’s chest again, they were no longer standing in front of the front door. Somehow, the King had maneuvered them into one of the large armchairs next to the fireplace, settling Bilbo into his lap and letting his intended’s sadness pour freely.

“Why?” Bilbo croaked pitifully, the entire right side of his face wet by tears where it had been pressed into Thorin’s chest. “Why them? They did nothing… nothing to deserve this…”

Thorin leaned in to kiss his forehead, the hand on Bilbo’s back never ceasing to rub soothing circles. “I don’t know, âzyungel. I don’t know.”

Bilbo’s cheek found Thorin’s breast again and the tears flowed once more, drenching the blue fabric that had not even begun to dry, until exhaustion took over.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was startled out of a dreamless sleep by a loud knock on the door.

Groggily, he lifted his head from his pillow and squinted in the general direction of the left side of his bed, where he knew the bedroom door was.

Only there was no door there, and he was not in his bed.

While Bilbo’s sluggish mind was trying very hard to figure out where his bedside table had gone, his pillow shifted and grumbled a bit in a foreign tongue, rubbing its prickly fabric up the column of Bilbo’s throat.

It took the confused hobbit several moments to understand that he and Thorin had fallen asleep in the same armchair they had been sitting on the last evening – or rather, earlier that night. And if the rays of sunshine coming in through the front windows and Bilbo’s howling stomach were any indication, they had slept in well past elevensies.

If the rest of the dwarves had seen to breakfast all by themselves, Bilbo dreaded to see the state of his kitchen.

His thoughts were interrupted by a second, more powerful set of knocks on the front door.

“Open the door!”

“We’re surrounded!”

Fíli and Kíli? Surrounded?

The shouts had Thorin’s eyes creaking open. The dwarf gave Bilbo a bleary, puzzled look and winced when his neck punished him for sleeping at an odd angle with a vengeful ‘pop’. “Bilbo? I thought I heard-”

“Quick! They’re closing in!”

“Orcs are here!”

The dreaded word sent a cold ball rolling down the length of Bilbo’s stiffening spine. Thorin must have felt the same thing, for the King’s eyes grew twice their normal size and they locked with the hobbit’s, the blue pupils a mix of surprise and anger.

Orcs? In the Shire? But why… and how?

There would be time later to wonder how the situation came to be. In the meantime…

Bilbo sprang from Thorin’s lap in the same heartbeat the dwarf bolted out of the armchair. Barefooted, Thorin ran down the main hall, all the while cursing himself for leaving Orcrist where he could not grab it at any given time. Bilbo’s sword was nearer; he only had to retrieve it from its resting place on Belladonna’s glory box, next to the mantelpiece. Quickly, he released Sting from its sheath and ran to the front door.

His trusty old ring was in his right pocket. Lately, he did not need to check to see if the small item was there. Its weight had gotten inexplicably greater…

Bilbo met Thorin at the front door. Swords drawn, hair askew and feet devoid of shoes, both males shared a resolute glance and Bilbo opened the great round door.

Fíli and Kíli came barging in, tripping over their own feet to scramble inside the smial. Bilbo’s first instinct was to pull Kíli all the way into the entrance hall and take on a defensive stance, Sting at the ready for whatever would come through the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, the hobbit saw Thorin do the same with Fíli and align Orcrist with Sting.

“Are you hurt?” the dwarf barked over his shoulder, focused on the light coming from outside.

“Not yet, thankfully!” Fíli said, and Bilbo’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “But it was a near thing.”

“You should know to never wander without your weapons,” Thorin growled, blinking as his eyes got used to the sunlight. “How many of those beasts are there?”

“A whole pack!”

The hair at the back of Bilbo’s neck stood on end. That could mean a dreadful _lot_ of filthy orcs and he was not sure two swords – well, one sword and a half, to be honest – could counter them, not matter how sharp and elven they were. There was no one else in the smial to come to their help, since everyone had probably gone out earlier that day, so in the end it was just them and their two glowing blue swords against Yavanna knew how many-

Wait a second.

The swords were not glowing. Not at all.

Bilbo frowned. “Thorin, I don’t think-”

A high-pitched scream interrupted him and Thorin choked on a curse word in Khuzdul right before a squadron of brown balls barrelled into his legs, almost making him lose his footing. Only sheer surprise stilled Bilbo’s arm and kept him from swinging Sting in a gesture that he would have regretted his whole life.

Well, his ‘whole life’ would have been rather short, really, had he cut Bell Gamgee’s son in half.

“Get them!” Samwise yelled, his face almost unrecognizable under the large pot he was using as a helmet. “That big fella first!”

Immediately, Peregrin and Meriadoc – or was it Meriadoc and Frodo? It was hard to tell given how dirty the boys’ faces were – latched onto Thorin’s legs and tried to saw them off with the wooden spoons they had been brandishing up until then. A fourth boy, Frodo or Peregrin, was fighting with the strip of fabric that was meant to be a mask but actually only covered his eyes, effectively blinding him.

All lads were covered in dried mud and a variety of twigs and leaves, as though they had been rolling about in the forest.

“Boys!” Bilbo said firmly, voice raising to catch their attention. “What are you doing?”

All fauntlings, including Frodo who had finally managed to get rid of his mask, turned to look at the irritated master of Bag End. “We’re orcs, mister Bilbo!” Sam supplied, all teeth bared in a large smile that threatened to take over his whole face.

“You are… what?”

When the two crown princes of Erebor burst into laughter behind him, Bilbo finally put two and two together.

_Orcs, indeed…_

“Young hobbits, the four of you are going to the bathroom _immediately_ , and Yavanna have mercy if I see you going anywhere else or scampering off to spread mischief,” Bilbo ordered in the sternest voice he could muster. It was not really that hard actually; all he had to do was think of the trail of muddy footprints that he would have to clean later that day.

The children all issued a collective groan. “Do we have to?” Peregrin whined, ever uncomfortable with the idea of a bath, or cleaning in general.

“Yes, young Master Took, you have to. Do you have any idea what your mothers will do to me if you come home dirtier and scruffier than Farmer Maggot’s dogs?”

“Ma isn’t back yet, she’ll never know!” Frodo chirped with a big smile, tucking his wooden spoon in his pocket as he would a sheath.

His words, spoken in plain youthful innocence, were like a punch to Bilbo’s stomach.

The hobbit almost took a step back from sheer grief as the aches in his heart were unearthed again. His cousins were dead. How could he even begin to tell Frodo that, indeed, his mother would ‘never know’? His throat tightened and tears gathered just below the surface, ready to break free.

A small tug on his pant leg brought him back to Bag End. Bilbo looked down into a pair of worried baby blue eyes.

“Are you okay, Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked with all the seriousness of his few years of life.

Bilbo forced a smile. “Yes, don’t worry Frodo. Go now, to the bathroom with the lot of you.”

The lads sighed but they knew there was no way around it, so as one they half-heartedly made their way down the main hall where they knew from their previous visits – and there had been _many_ of them – the bathroom was.

Still cackling, Fíli and Kíli tried to follow the boys but their uncle would have none of that.

“Not so fast, you two,” Thorin growled, reaching out to grab a blond braid in his left hand and a black one in his right. He didn’t waste any time in tugging his yelping nephews back to the front door. “What in Mahal’s name were you thinking?”

“It was a joke,” Kíli said, trying to release the iron grip Thorin had on his hair.

“The little ones found it funny,” Fíli added, not even trying to wriggle free for he knew he had no chance to succeed.

“In case you have forgotten, a warg was lurking around not so long ago,” Thorin hissed between his teeth, lowering his voice so only the four of them could hear. “I do not think running around screaming about orcs is very wise. I hope you will get it through your thick skulls or I will be forced to remind you. As. Many. Times. As. It. Takes,” Thorin finished, punctuating each word with a tug on his nephews’ braids before he released them.

Both young dwarves winced and cradled their abused hair close but they nodded and hurried after the children. Bilbo hoped it was to supervise the washing, but he was no fool and knew that some kind of new mischief was going to take place in Bag End’s bathroom before the morning was truly over.

A large hand closed around his shoulder and Bilbo looked up into Thorin’s concerned gaze. “Are you all right?” the dwarf asked softly.

“I’m… yes, yes I think so. The boys startled me, that’s all. It didn’t help that I was still half-asleep.”

“This was not what I meant.”

Bilbo sighed. Of course, Thorin was talking about Frodo. “I… I don’t know how to tell him,” he admitted under his breath and did not fight when he was pulled into the dwarf’s arms. “He is so young, so small… I don’t want to inflict such pain upon him.”

“The pain will be there, that much is true. But you are not the one who is willingly inflicting it, Bilbo.” Thorin pulled back to catch Bilbo’s eyes. “You still have time to think of a way to tell him, you do not have to do it right now. We are not leaving tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t seem fair for the boy, to wait too long. He needs time to decide where he wants to live, I would like to give him that time.”

Through the veil of concern, a small glint of something fresh and bright, like hope, flashed in Thorin’s eyes. “So you have decided to bring him to Erebor with us?”

“I have decided to _consider_ it,” Bilbo corrected. “But the boy’s wishes exceed mine and I will not go against them.” The shireling found himself in another warm embrace, one that he responded to only too gladly if only for comfort. “Don’t place any order for clothes and toys just yet.”

Thorin chuckled and deposited a kiss on Bilbo’s hair. “Bifur and Dori are going to be very disappointed, but your word is law, my heart.”

“If my word was truly law, then things would be far simpler and we would at least have enough time to sit down all together to eat every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I have a mud trail the size of Erebor’s stables to clean before my father climbs out of his grave to box my ears.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	32. The Cat out of the Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A writer is never late. A writer posts chapter exactly when he means to. 
> 
> Even if they are more than one year apart, yes. 
> 
> __________
> 
> Mizim : Jewel

 

“Sweet pie?”

“No.”

“My little dandelion?”

“ _No_.”

“My cute carrot cupcake?”

“Ah, that reminds me I’ll have to make a short trip to the market for some flour for those cookies Dwalin wanted, but no, definitely not.”

“Little bunny?”

From his spot at the cutting board, Thorin actually growled at the name. Which of course sent his nephews and their bare-footed band of minions cackling.

Bilbo could only sigh and fill all of their plates with salad – much to Fíli’s and Kíli’s dismay – in hopes that the dwarven brothers would be too occupied fighting the ‘green Evil’ to annoy their uncle.

Their little game of ‘Try to guess what Bilbo and Uncle call one another in private’ was quickly becoming a nuisance.

“Why is it always animals, flowers or food, anyway?” the hobbit found himself asking, quickly collecting the empty salad bowl and his wooden spoons to shepherd them back to the counter.

Thorin groaned. “Do not,” the dwarf said with a subtle, plaintive undertone, “feign any interest. You are only spurring them on.”

Oh. So this was the reason why the King had not uttered a word ever since the beginning of that silly game and busied himself with cutting up pork chops. Bilbo thought the dwarf was still sore from their violent wake-up call and was ignoring his nephews on purpose, but this was actually self-preservation.

“You could have warned me sooner,” Bilbo accused, settling his bowl on the counter next to Thorin’s cutting board and giving a hum of appreciation at the fine work his suitor had done with an old kitchen knife. “I believe those are ripe for roasting, what do you think?”

“I dug a hole through the bone so you only have to run the skewer in those and they will be ready for the fire.”

“My, you finally mastered something at cooking,” Bilbo jested. “I am very proud of you, sweet pie.”

That was a dangerous move, considering Thorin’s sour mood – not to mention the large knife he was still holding – but Bilbo was determined to make light of his nephew’s behaviour.  

At first Thorin’s sharp blue eyes found his intended’s and something akin to annoyance flashed in them. The movement freed a few white-streaked bangs from the ponytail the dwarf had pulled his hair in before starting his cooking duties, shadowing his gaze and giving him an even sterner expression. Braced up against the counter, knife in hand and sleeves rolled up to reveal massive forearms, Thorin was the picture of danger.

Right when Bilbo thought that maybe he had made a mistake, Thorin smiled. “You are very welcome, little dandelion.”

Bilbo huffed out a nervous laugh and quickly carried the pork chops over to the roaring fire. That was a close call. But it gave him enough self-confidence to humour the Princes of Erebor and their little admirers. “If you have to know, half the time I don’t even know what your uncle is calling me, since he insists on speaking in blasted khuzdul.” There the hobbit gave a dramatic sigh. “And to think, he won’t let me give him elvish names. The shame.”

The boys’ roars of laughter and Thorin’s “ _How could you do this?_ ” look were well worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thorin, could you please explain to me the similarities between a pack of orcs and a rosebush?”

The dwarf raised one cautious eyebrow, sensing the trap in the question. “There is… none?”

“Most certainly. Then, kindly explain… why are you treating them the same way?”

Bilbo watched with his arms crossed and a furrow across his brow as Thorin guiltily set down the small – not to mention poorly-crafted, if anyone were to ask him – clawed tool he had been given to remove weeds from the foot of the rosebushes. A task he was, if his intended’s tapping foot was any indication, obviously failing quite spectacularly at.

“My apologies, it was not my intention to damage your bushes,” the dwarf said.

“Yet you have been murdering them for the past ten minutes as though the poor things pledged allegiance to Azog himself.”

Thorin winced and stole a glance in the general direction of the tomatoes, where he knew young Samwise was showing off the gardening skills he had picked up from his father to a bewildered Kíli. Thankfully, the boy had not heard the wretched orc’s name, as Thorin would have hated for another bout of ‘Let’s play Orcs and Dwarves’ to be brought on again. Once had been enough.

“Am I to assume I am not performing to your liking then?” the dwarf tentatively asked.

“To my… summer skies, Thorin! You are almost worse at it than I am with a sword!”

“Yet you have nothing if not your fighting skills to thank for making it out of the battle for Erebor alive, might I remind you,” Thorin grumbled. He did not like to hear his beloved hobbit depreciating himself. Besides, he had taught Bilbo a few techniques and he liked to think that if he could teach his two unruly nephews, he could teach almost anyone.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Yes, as well as a mountainful of dwarves, a wizard and an entire family of giant eagles but yes, my swashbuckling skills are equal to none. Now, if you are done spilling fake niceties, scoot over and let people who actually know what they are doing fix the mess you made.”

With a sigh, Thorin sat aside and surrendered his gardening tools to Bilbo – had the hobbit ever noticed the poor quality of those? How they seemed to loosen at the base of the handle? As soon as the opportunity would rise, Thorin vowed to forge his intended a whole new set, especially designed with delicate, dexterous hobbit hands in mind. A courting gift of some sort, although it would have nothing to do with the kind of gift Dwarves usually crafted.

But it would fit, somehow.

Thorin watched as Bilbo weeded the soil at the base of the rosebushes as swiftly as Dwalin would sharpen a dozen daggers. The hobbit was on his hands and knees, the extra exertions sending the occasional bead of sweat rolling down his beardless cheek and into the collar of his white shirt. Quite an enticing sight, if anyone were to ask Thorin, though not one he had often come across.

A few minutes later, when the dwarf had lost himself drinking in the sight of his hobbit at work, Bilbo sat back on his haunches and sighed loudly.

“That should do it,” he announced proudly, wiping his brow with his forearm. His pink cheeks and messed-up locks were a lovely sigh under the mid-afternoon Sun, and Thorin could not help but wonder how lovely they would be under other, more intimate circumstances. “That’s enough work for this afternoon. It’s almost time for tea.”

“Indeed,” Thorin nodded, getting to his feet. “I will have a kettle on the fire as you clean up.”

“Not so fast, you won’t,” Bilbo tutted, waving one disapproving finger as he would a naughty dog. “You think I will let you go inside in that state?”

Thorin frowned; what was the matter? He was not particularly dirty, since Bilbo had almost done all the work. He had even left his boots inside Bag End so they would not get muddy and leave tracks on the floor. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, master dwarf, that while I love plants and flowers as much as the next fellow, I am not allowing you inside with half my rosebushes tangled in your hair!”

Instinctively, Thorin’s hand reached up and he made a face. All manners of leaves and twigs had managed to twist their way into his hair from his brief time under the rosebush.

Bilbo gave him a compassionate smile. “Go sit in front of the bench in the front yard. I’ll wash my hands and take care of that for you.”

With a nod, Thorin dusted his hands off on his pants and padded over to the front yard as asked. There was something to be said about the feel of grass under your soles or between your toes. Thorin had never gone barefoot for longer than it took to get his feet clean; life on the road or in the forge did not allow for that kind of liberty. There was always a hammer that could fall and crush your foot, or pony that could step on it and cripple you, reducing your chances to provide for your family down to zero. No, there was too much at stake to take such risks, at the time.

But Thorin could see the appeal. Here, in this green land, with the Sun above and a soft carpet beneath, it was only logical.

The King sat down on the flat rock in front of the bench Bilbo had mentioned and waited.

A big, jet black cat poked its head out of the low hedge next to the bench. It sniffed the air a few times before its yellow eyes came across Thorin and settled on him.

The dwarf extended a hand, expecting the animal to bolt out of sight, but to his surprise the cat stayed put and let Thorin pet its head.

“Goodness, I leave you alone for five minutes and you find a way to make new friends!”

Thorin grinned and craned his neck to look as Bilbo climbed down the few steps that led to the bench and took a seat. “To be honest, I thought it would do away. Cats and dogs do not usually seek out my affections.”

“Don’t think you are special or anything. Rascal is an old cat, he knows that befriending people means more food and less trouble for him. Right, Rascal?” Bilbo asked playfully, bending forward to scratched the small patch of white fur under the cat’s chin.

“You know this cat?”

“He’s been around for fifteen years or so. I think he is from one of Farmer Maggot’s numerous litters,” Bilbo explained as he set to work plucking twigs and thorns from Thorin’s hair. “Always had two dozen cats roaming his lands, that fellow, to keep the rodents at bay. But Rascal never really belonged to anyone, nor did he like to stay in one place for long. He just hops from one garden to the other and eats scraps or hunts mice. Though I suspect that with his age, it must be exclusively the former now.”

The feline did not seem to want for anything, however, if the bit of tummy he exposed as he rolled in Thorin’s lap was anything to judge by.

The next few minutes counted among the happiest Thorin had known. His head tilted back, with his One’s nimble fingers working at his scalp while the sun bathed his face. The soothing touch of soft fur under his palms, mixed with the gentle tremble of lazy purring.

Thorin would have never thought, one or two years earlier, that such peace of mind could be found so far from his mountain and his people. Yet, here he was.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”

Thorin cracked open eyes he did not remember closing. “Well, it _is_ awfully quiet today. Is everyone sleeping?”

“More or less. I’ve sent  Pippin and Merry back home, lest their mothers start to think that I have a mind to abduct them. Your nephews are somewhere in the back with Sam and Frodo, and everybody else has either gone for a walk or a nap. Or both, successively mind you.”

“Mahal help me, could it be that we are… alone?”

“I don’t know if Mahal had a hand in this or not, but yes.” Bilbo abandoned his work to lean forward and wrap his arms around Thorin’s neck, burying his nose in the black strands directly above the dwarf’s round ear. “We are alone. Now, is there anything on your mind, O King?”

“I might have thought about a thing or two, should this situation arise,” Thorin said in his best detached voice. He hoped that his tone was casual and did not betray the heat he felt rising in his cheeks from the mere proximity of his One. He was no young dwarf, he had to show he could control himself. “If you would be amenable. Would you care to know?”

“Who am I to deny a King?”

“Bilbo Baggins!”

The hobbit wrenched himself away so swiftly that he took a few dark hairs with him. Thorin, however, never felt the pull since he was too busy jumping to his feet himself. That, and the sting of Rascal’s claws in his upper thigh as the animal bolted was sensibly more painful.

In lieu of the terrible foe Thorin expected to find at the gate, Lobelia was there in all of her green summer dress glory. Arms crossed over her chest and brows furrowed over her small mousy nose.

Given the fire in her eyes, she might as well be called a terrible foe herself.

“Lobelia,” Bilbo greeted with forced politeness, but it was clear the name felt like poison on his tongue. “It’s been a while. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Thorin stayed one step behind but eyed the exchange warily. He would not make the same mistake he had at the wedding and step in to ‘save’ Bilbo, who could very well handle his despicable cousin, but he would not leave him to it. The last time they had dealings with the loud-mouthed lady, it had not ended well.

In fact it had ended just as badly as this conversation seemed to begin.

“Do not try to sway me with pleasantries Bilbo! Where is he?”

“Where is who? Your husband? Not here, obviously, but have you tried looking under your skirts?”

“Not Otho, trout face! I am speaking about Frodo!”

At the mention of the lad’s name, Thorin instinctively tensed up, his attention picked. He did not know when exactly he had begun to feel the need to protect the young boy at all costs – probably the second he had learnt of Frodo’s parents’ deaths, doubtlessly – but the mere mention of the fauntling was enough to shake him. Even more so if it came from someone Thorin did not like much.

Bilbo had visibly decided to drop the polite act, given his change of stance and tone. “Frodo is under careful watch. Is that what had you worried?” ‘Careful watch’ would not be the exact words Thorin would have used to describe the company of his nephews, but well. The female was not supposed to know. “You can go home now that your fears are appeased.”

“Appeased?” The way Lobelia’s nostrils flared in anger could have bought her way in Smaug’s lineage any day of the week. “Now you listen to me, you foolish son of a Took! You hand over the last this instant and _then_ I will take my leave, not before!”

“What gives you the right to request such a thing?” Thorin asked briskly. True, he had vowed to let Bilbo handle this, and he may be only a guest in Hobbiton, but he would not let his intended and their smallest charge be wronged in the same sentence. Not under his watch.

For a brief moment, his gruff voice sent a flash of doubt across Lobelia’s brown eyes, but she righted herself surprisingly quickly and stood as tall as her hobbit height would allow. “I am not speaking to you, Scruffy, this matter affects this family only. Your presence is neither necessary nor wished.”

She had said the last words with a slight tremble in her lower lip but Thorin was too impressed to take offence. She must have gathered all of her courage and willpower on the way from her smial to Bag End to say her piece, no doubt; she would let nothing kill her determination.

“Lobelia, please try and stay polite to my guests,” Bilbo said through gritted teeth, his own arms coming up to fold over his chest. “Explain yourself. Do you think I won’t be able to take care of Frodo properly while his parents are away?”

At this, Thorin chose to hide his wince by turning his head toward the low hedge where something small – probably a lingering Rascal checking if the crazy lady was still there – was ruffling fallen leaves. They had not discussed Primula and Drogo’s deaths with anyone, not even the Company, since the Thain had broken the news to them the previous night. They had not decided how and when they were going to tell Frodo, or even what was to become of the boy. Bilbo still had his thoughts to sort on the matter.

Lobelia laughed humourlessly. “Do you take me for a fool? I had elevensies with Fortinbras and he told me that Drogo and Primula are not coming back any day soon!”

“What difference does it make? One day, one week, one month,” Bilbo shrugged, but Thorin could see the tension in his One’s shoulders. His heart ached; Bilbo had not had enough time to come to terms with his cousins’ deaths yet. Talking about them in a casual conversation must cost him greatly. “The boy is no trouble, he is very welcome in Bag End for as long as he wishes.”

“Don’t act as though you don’t know!”

At this Bilbo paused, his right fingers twitching against his side in a show of distress. Without making the conscious decision to do so, Thorin stepped closer.

“Know what, Lobelia?” Bilbo asked, his voice curious but bordering on desperate. Exactly how much had Fortinbras revealed?

“Drogo and Primula are never coming back! They are dead!”

There it was. The truth was out.

It was never a secret to begin with but still… more time to think about what to do with young Frodo would not have been amiss before the entire town knew about his parents’ demise.

Which, knowing Lobelia’s ruthless chatterbox, would be achieved some time in the evening.

“And don’t you dare play dumb with me!” Lobelia seethed, an accusative – though a bit on the shaking side – finger levelled at her cousin’s face. “Fortinbras told me you knew! You knew and you said nothing! What were you going to do with the boy then? Keep him here and convert him to your improper, stupid, d-d-dwarven ways?”

“I see only one stupid person here and I can assure you, she is no dwarf!” Bilbo barked, his calm appearance finally snapping. “We only learnt the news yesterday!”

“Ha! So you admit you knew!”

“Of course I knew! But what did you expect me to do, run about Hobbiton in the dead of night shouting that my closest cousins are dead?”

“Mommy and Daddy… are dead?”

Time froze around Bag End. For one, maybe two blissful seconds, Thorin could pretend that he had not heard the young, unsure voice. But he was a dwarf, a King no less, and he knew there was no use turning your head away from trouble in hopes that it would go away.

Slowly, Thorin turned to the hedge once more. From under the broad leaves a dark-haired head was poking out, but it did not belong to Rascal. Far from it.

“Frodo,” Bilbo whispered but the sound came to Thorin more as a whimper. “Lad… what were you doing under there?”

“Playing hide n’ seek with Sam and Kíli,” Frodo said with his little, innocent voice and Thorin felt a piece of his heart shatter. “They… Mommy and Daddy are not coming back?”

“Oh darling…” Lobelia was at a loss for words, which on any other day would have been reason enough to rejoice. Frodo’s sudden appearance had rendered her speechless, but it was too late to take back her words.

This answer, or rather lack thereof, seemed to be enough for Frodo. The fauntling’s blue eyes filled with tears and without a sound, without a word, he bolted from his hiding spot and made a beeline for Bag End’s green door.

“The Valar give me strength,” Bilbo muttered, and Lobelia had the decency to at least look ashamed. “Thorin, dearest, could you please see to Frodo? I need a chat with Lobelia here.”

Thorin was only too happy to comply; remorseful or not, he would have enjoyed chewing the hobbit out until there was nothing left for her husband to come home to. He only hoped Bilbo would give her the trashing she deserved after she – although inadvertently – delivered the fateful news to Frodo in such a brutal way.

It only took a few minutes to find the faunt in the deserted smial. There was no missing the loud, heart-twisting sobs coming from the master bedroom. Thorin walked in and after a bit of searching, found Frodo curled up in the far corner of the room, hidden behind a pile of heavy books.

Thorin knelt and leaned in. He gathered the young boy in his arms with ease and rocked back on his heels, holding him close to his heart.

“Come here, mizim,” Thorin whispered, searching in his memory for the soothing voice he had always used to calm his nephews when they were babies and Dís was away. “I have you.”

Thankfully, Frodo did not fight the hold and settled against Thorin’s chest. His small fists grabbed at the light tunic as he buried his nose under the dwarf’s chin and kept sobbing his little heart out.

The King of Erebor was many things: a skilled warrior, a watchful uncle, a protective brother. But he was not particularly gifted at comforting others, let alone children who just learnt that they were orphans. Thus, Thorin simply took a seat on Bilbo’s bed and held Frodo close as the lad wept.

At one point, Frodo lifted his puffy blue eyes to look at Thorin.

“Are they r-really gone?” he hiccupped weakly, water still running out of his eyes and nose. “F-forever?”

Thorin’s heart almost crumpled. He was sorely tempted to give in, to tell the boy exactly what would make him smile again. That everything would turn out to be all right. He knew all too well the pain of losing everything, with no hope of recovery; he also knew the suffering brought on by lies young hearts could desperately cling to.

The King of Erebor was many things. But he was not a liar.

“Yes, little one. They are gone.”

Frodo’s head dropped back to the wet patch of tunic and the sobs began anew.

His decision made, Thorin’s hand came back up to stroke the lad’s hair and back, as he allowed his heart and gestures to speak the words his mouth could not.

_They are gone. But you will never be alone_.


	33. Past Losses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nadad – Brother  
> Adad – Father  
> Amad – Mother  
> Mizimith – Jewel (that is young)  
> Kurdel – Heart (of all hearts)  
> Ghivashel – Treasure (of all treasures)

“My _gold_! My beautiful gold!”

“Grandfather, we have to leave! Now!”

But Thrór fought Thorin’s hold with everything that he had. The greying King of Erebor almost tripped when he finally succeeded in escaping his grandson’s hands and hurried towards the stairs leading to the swirling, fuming mass that had become of his once carefully arranged treasury.

Thorin lunged after Thrór, sword brandished in mock defence – for really, how could one weapon, however mighty, stand a chance against a fire drake? One deafening roar dampened the young dwarf’s momentum but the sight of his grandfather stumbling closer and closer to the tornado of gold shook him out of his fear.

“We cannot stay here!” Thorin yelled, hoping against all odds that his voice could be heard above the earth-shattering inferno that was a blasted dragon making itself comfortable. “We will die!”

“Leave me alone! My gold!” Thrór wailed. “The Arkenstone!”

Before he could reach the ever-moving glittering sea, however, the older dwarf slipped and finally collapsed on his knees. Thorin seized his chance and grabbed his grandfather under the arms. Thankfully, the King offered little resistance as he was dragged away from the destroyed treasury and the deadly threat therein.

Thorin waited until they were well out of reaching range before he released Thrór. “We need to get out of here, the whole mountain is about to collapse!” the young dwarf roared as a pillar came crashing down a few yards away. “Cursed wyrm!”

Thrór did not respond, he just stared numbly at the way they had come from and the treasure of a lifetime lost to a fire-breathing monster. Thorin could not help but feel a pang of sadness for his grandfather but it was soon to be lost in favour of more pressing matters.

Together they ran, Thorin half-dragging, half-carrying an empty-eyed Thrór down crumbling halls and charred corridors. Through the thick curtain of accumulated smoke, dwarves of all ages were trying to find their way to the Gate. Dozens, hundreds of unmoving corpses littered the path the forsaken dragon had chosen to take to reach the treasury. Were they all dead? Thorin wished there could be enough time to check but at the moment, time was a luxury he could not afford.

The great statues of old had been the first to withstand the worm’s assault; they were scattered all around the halls, covered by half-burnt tapestries that had fallen from the walls at the first gust of fire. Thorin tried his best to watch his step, but the smoke and ash stabbing his eyes and clogging his lungs made it impossible not to trip every now and then on a broken rock, a forgotten axe. Another dwarf’s body.

At long last, light from the torn-up Gate shone and a fresh wave of determination had Thorin sprinting in its direction. His grandfather was little more than an overgrown bag of hay, now, he knew he had to get him away from the dragon’s stench as quickly as possible.

Not to mention that one of the great pillars supporting the weight of the ceiling of the Main Hall seemed ready to shatter at moment’s notice.

“Hold on, Grandfather! We’re there!” he shouted, though he was not sure Thrór was the one who needed to hear that.

Like a bull with a target in sight, Thorin strode out of the city of stone with his heart beating against his ribcage as though it was a war drum. The Sun briefly blinded him but the burst of fresh air seeped into his muscles, reviving them, and he did not stop running until he was a safe distance away from the smoking Gate and the throngs of dwarves fleeing Erebor.

“It’s safe,” Thorin panted as he slowed down to a stop and carefully sat Thrór on the grass along what remained of the path leading to Erebor. The enormous weight of the winged drake had torn the flat rocks apart, revealing the soil beneath. “It’s safe. You are safe. Stay here.”

His grandfather nodded wordlessly, eyes boring into the earth next to his feet. By all accounts it looked like life had fled the elderly dwarf’s body and by all means Thorin should be worried out of his bones, but a mountain on fire and hundreds of his kin running for their lives were reason enough to dismiss it for the time being.

“Nadad!”

Thorin whirled around and felt an instant wave of relief at the sight of his younger brother pushing his way past the constant stream of escaping dwarves. “Frerin! I’m glad to see you sound!”

Apart from a few bruises along his cheeks and arms, the tween bore no serious wound that Thorin could see. The only notable injury was a short gash across his chin, barely hidden by the growing stubble there. As soon as Frerin came within reaching range, Thorin snatched him up and gave him a brief, bone-crushing embrace, which was returned with equal fervour – if not strength.

“Are you unharmed?” Thorin asked quickly, already checking the lad all over.

Frerin shook his head but bore his brother’s attentions all the same. “I’m good. I was in the aviary on Ravenhill with Adad when the dragon… when it happened. I saw you on the battlements and then the dragon breathed fire and I… I thought… I was sure you were…”

“I am fine,” Thorin said hastily, bringing his forehead against Frerin’s to stop the onslaught of tears that threatened to spill from his younger brother’s blue eyes. “I did not fall. I am fine and I am here, with you.”

Frerin nodded shakily but forced his forehead further into his older brother’s, grabbing fistfuls of Thorin’s smoke-smelling hair to push himself closer in an effort to ward off tears. Thorin cupped the back of Frerin’s head and allowed the both of them a moment to bask in the relief that neither had been charred and crushed to death.

Unfortunately, time was short.

“Where is Father? We need to guide everyone and find healers, there is a good number of wounded,” Thorin asked as he pulled himself away. “Grandfather is in no state to lead at the moment. Father and I can take it from here.”

The young Prince had actually never been in charge of anything for real – and no, standing beside his grandfather’s throne as he greeted visitors did not count. Deep down he was terrified and very much doubted he could handle such a tragedy alone; he needed to find his father.

“I… I hoped you could tell me.”

“I thought he was with you in the aviary.”

“Y-yes he was, but… he told me to wait out here for you and, and…”

“Speak plainly, boy!” Thorin barked, perhaps a bit harsher than he intended but time was of the essence and his brother, however young and petrified, was wasting it stumbling on words.

This time, twin drops dug their way through the grime covering Frerin’s nearly-beardless cheeks. “He went back inside to get Amad and Dís.”

Thorin’s heart sunk upon hearing those words. He had been so single-minded, so set on carrying his grandfather to safety and looking out for his people, that he had almost forgotten that he had his own family to worry over.

The eldest Prince turned back to the Mountain. Its Gate was smashed, making a very convincing impression of a gruesome wound along the face of the once-majestic mountain. Smoke and flames came out of the ragged openings in steady bursts, leaving no doubt as to whom had taken over ruling inside.

Somewhere inside that inferno, he had a father, a mother and a baby sister.

“Stay here with Grandfather!” Thorin ordered as reason fought a losing battle against despair in his chest. “If anyone asks, tell them to gather on the outskirts of Dale! We will see where we go from there.”

Frerin glanced down at the still dead-eyed Thrór then back up at his brother. The resolve in the younger dwarf’s eyes shone as bright as his tears. “If you’re going back inside, I’m coming with you!”

A plague upon Durin’s reckless blood!

“ _You_ are staying out here, I will come back as soon as I can!” Thorin growled in his best menacing tone. But he knew his brother too well to believe this would be sufficient to sway him.

“I’m coming with you, and if it’s a problem to you then fine! Don’t mind me!” Frerin roared back stubbornly. His arms, thick already but still growing, pushed against Thorin’s chest to remove his brother from the way. “I’m sick of always being left behind when it really matters!”

Thorin grabbed Frerin’s upper arms and effortlessly held him back. He briefly considered ordering the younger dwarf to stay out of this, using the authoritative tone he had been working on for months. But he knew as a fact that his efforts would be fruitless.

“Whatever happens, whatever you see,” Thorin said through gritted teeth, “you are not to leave my side. Stick close to me.”

Frerin’s eyes opened wide – apparently he had not expected to be allowed to come so quickly – and he gave an eager nod.

With one last pondering glance at the sitting King of Erebor, who refused to move even though his subjects were almost running him over in their haste to depart from the kingdom, the two brothers turned heels and barreled their way back to the Gate, Thorin in the lead.

The curtain of smoke had gotten impossibly thicker, unable to escape as quickly as it was created. A few feet into the blazing tempest that had become Erebor, and it was already getting very difficult to breathe properly. One particularly strong gust of wind sent ash flying into Thorin’s eyes and mouth, pulling great hacking coughs from him. He paid the second of inattention that followed by tripping on a fallen pillar and crashing into the ground, on the unmoving body of a guard.

“Nadad!” Frerin cried out, rushing forward to help Thorin up. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Thorin cursed his luck and cradled his left hand. He had nicked himself on the dead guard’s armour and had earned himself a nice gash across the palm for it. “I’m fine. Let’s try the third floor!”

The two of them ran up the massive flight of stairs on the left of the Main Hall, careful to avoid crumbling portions for fear that their weight would be alone to rip them apart and send them plummeting to their deaths.

On bright sunny days such as this one was – well, at least until an overgrown lizard had taken upon himself to ruin it completely – their mother liked to take walks on the battlements of the eastern part of the third floor. There, she could see all the way to the Long Lake and the surrounding hills, a sight she had always cherished for some reason. Sometimes, she would take DÍs on these walks; there was a chance they had been there together that day, before it all went downhill.

As good a guess as any, but they had to start somewhere.

The great doors to the third floor were closed, their handles molten to the point they had almost fused in together and hung helplessly from their frames.

On impulse, Thorin grabbed one handle in each hand and prepared to pull the doors open. Only to recoil swiftly with a cry when his palms were singed.

“What’s wrong?” Frerin asked, his gaze sweeping all around at falling bits of ceiling and burning tapestries.

“The handles,” Thorin seethed, clenching and unclenching his wounded fists. “They are still burning hot. A curse on dragon fire!”

Frerin picked up a red and gold drapery that had once proudly displayed the foundation of Khazad-dûm by Durin the Deathless, before its crippling encounter with Smaug’s claws. He slipped one end of the ruined needlework through what remained of the handles and handed the other to his brother. “Here, on my mark… Pull!”

The dark-bearded brothers pulled with all their might and within moments, the doors creaked on their broken hinges and opened a crack.

“Lads!”

Thorin was surprised and stupidly delighted to find his father’s one-eyed face staring back at him from between the half-open doors.

“Adad!” Frerin exclaimed.

“Durin’s blessing to the two of you! I’ve been tryin’ to force this damn thing open for Mahal knows how long!”

“Thorin!”

The eldest Prince of Erebor’s heart gave a leap at the sight of his mother, Frís, holding a frightened Dís in her arms. She was wearing her blacksmith attire, and her long blond hair was tied back into a large braid. She must have been in the forge when the attack happened.

“Hold fast! Father, try to push the doors open, Frerin and I will pull them back!”

“Aye!”

It took a great deal of grunting, sweating and a few startled jumps when a bit of rock came crashing down just a little bit too close for comfort, but the combined strength of the three dwarves succeeded in dragging the ruined doors open just enough to pass through.

Thráin and Frís hurried through the opening and Thorin was overcome with the fierce need to embrace his mother and sister. He had been so terrified, so paralysed with fright at the thought of them dying that finally seeing them whole and sound did strange things to his heart. Never before had they been separated like this, without knowing whether the others were still alive or not.

Still, he refrained. It would not do to embarrass his father thus.

Dís had other things in mind, of course.

“Nadad!” she cried out, practically throwing herself from her mother’s arms and right into Thorin’s. The young Prince thankfully caught her and cradled her close, basking in her youthful, sweet scent.

She was alive. His most precious treasure in this vast world, his smallest and greatest charge. She was alive.

“I was afraid!” Dís admitted, tears flying freely down her still beardless cheeks. She was only ten year-old, too young for a beard. Too young to live through this inferno. “I know Dwarves are not s’posed to, but I was so afraid!”

“Shh, easy, mizimith,” Thorin said gently, adjusting her in his arms so she would be resting on his large belt. “There is no shame in being afraid in the course of such events.” Thorin raised his head to see Frís pressing her forehead to Frerin’s in gratitude. “The dragon is in the treasury, every time it moves the walls are closer to collapsing. There is nothing we can do now, we must run!”

Thráin gave a solid nod. “To the Gate then! To the Gate and away from that twice-cursed wyrm!”

The five of them sprinted down the tumbling staircase, dodging discarded weapons and bodies – sometimes, only parts – as they went. From deep within the mountain, terrible roars were making the floor and walls tremble; they were only motivation to run faster.

Before long the Gate was in sight. Small portions of the battlements above it had been chipped away and had fallen, effectively reducing the light flashing through the opening to a sliver, but still it should not hinder them.

Thorin’s legs and lungs burned, his hands throbbed where they had been singed and the gash across his palm prickled at the mercy of beads of sweat. But he would not be deterred; safety was here, within breathing range. Safety for his whole family, at least for the time being. He pushed on, banishing his screaming joints to the back of his mind.

Frís’ scream had him stopping dead in his tracks only a few yards from light and fresh air.

Thorin whirled around, Dís still clutched to his chest, and his blood ran cold. His mother’s right leg had fallen thigh-deep through a crack in the floor, right next to the massive pillar that Thorin had noticed on his first way out. It looked even more damaged and threatened to teeter over should someone so much as breathe on it.

“No!” Thorin roared. He pushed Dís into the arms of a bewildered Frerin and hurried to his mother’s side. He reached her at the same time his father did. “Mother, take my hand!”

Frís grabbed her eldest son’s hand with both of hers and tried her hardest to pull herself up. She grunted and pulled, but still her leg would not be freed. “My foot is stuck under something, I can’t move it aside! I fear it’s broken.”

“Hold on!” Thráin threw himself on his hands and knees and began digging at the ground like a mad dwarf with his bare hands. The marble along the crack was ragged but still too solid to rip apart without proper tools. The greying dwarf gave a frustrated growl. “I’ll find a hammer, a spear, anything!”

The pillar above them chose that precise moment to give a dangerous crack, making the whole group snap their heads up alarmingly. Thorin’s mind was running wild searching for solutions and cursing Mahal for their bad luck alike.

“You must leave! Now!” Frís said over the ruckus of two pillars supporting the battlements crumbling on their feet on the other side of the hall. “There is no time!”

“We are not leavin’ without you!” Thráin snarled, searching desperately around them for anything to attack the stone with.

A small pickaxe lay discarded in rumble. Its point was broken and twisted aside, but there was nothing better on offer at the moment. The King’s son hurriedly picked the tool up and renewed his assault on the marble.

Without much more success than when he was using his nails.

“You’re wasting time!” Frís forcefully removed the pickaxe from her husband’s hands, pulling an outraged shout from him when she flung it far away and into the curtain of black smoke.

“Are you out of your mind? What did you do that for?”

The blonde-haired dwarrowdam reached up to grasp both of her One’s hands and keep him from running after the lost pickaxe. “Thráin, there is no time left! You need to go. Lead our children to safety.”

“I am going nowhere without you!” the one-eyed dwarf refused, his greying hair flying from side to side fiercely as he shook his head. “I won’t leave you here!”

“You have to!” Frís pulled her husband down on one knee to press her forehead to his. Were those tears in her blue eyes? Thorin’s heart broke at the simple thought. “Please, kurdel. Please watch over our children for me.”

Thráin’s shoulders sagged and he sank fully onto his knees to wrap his arms around his wife in a fierce embrace. “I can’t, I… don’t ask this of me…”

“Of course you can. You are a great father, Thráin, I know they are safe with you.”

When the first sob broke out of his father’s throat, Thorin knew that all hope was lost.

Pain barely registered in his mind when he fell knees first on the ground next to where Frís was stuck. Smoke, roars, demolished walls… they became a dull buzz at the back of his skull as an even greater reality clawed its way at the forefront of his thoughts: his mother was going to die.

So numb he was, he hardly felt Frís’ hands when they cupped his bearded cheeks and tilted his chin up. Her blue eyes were wet, sad, but shone with an inexplicable light. “My son,” she said warmly. “One should never wait for such circumstances to say those words, but… I am so proud of you. Your heart is strong and in the right place. You will make a fine King one day, I wish Mahal will allow me to bear witness.”

Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. “There’s time yet,” he croaked weakly.

“There is not. You need to flee.” Frís ran a loving hand in Thorin’s tousled hair, from his hairline to the braids behind his right ear, to rest on his bearded cheek once more. “Go now. Protect your brother and sister, help your father. I will see you in the Halls of Waiting, hopefully in many, many decades.”

“Amad…”

Thorin grabbed his mother in an impulsive hug, appearances be damned. He would take every last second he had with one of the two most important dwarrowdams in his life and make the most of it. He heard rather than felt Frerin and Dís join in the embrace, the former doing an admirable job at putting on a brave face and reigning in his tears, while the latter did not even try.

Again, a hazardous crack rang in the hall. The great pillar was living its last minutes.

“Go!” Frís pushed her husbands and children away from her and though it probably took every ounce of willpower she possessed, there was no mistaking the determination in her cobalt eyes. “Go now! Live! You are the only things I’ve held dear all these years, I would sooner roast for eternity than let a cursed wyrm be the end of you!”

Thorin nodded numbly and had to pry a wailing Dís’ hands from her mother’s tunic. His baby sister fought but soon found herself overpowered; she curled up into his shoulder and cried hot tears into his blue coat. With one hand, the eldest Prince caught an unmoving Frerin’s collar and dragged him to his feet. Thankfully, Thráin got up on his own, though a bit sluggishly.

One final snap, and the pillar caved in.

With Dís clutched to his chest and Frerin’s forearm in his grasp, Thorin sprinted toward the light. The young dwarf threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure Thráin was on his heels.

That turned out to be a mistake.

The pillar had slid to the ground from where it was cracked, near the ground, and had broken cleanly in two upon hitting the marbled floor. The bottom part was leaning toward the nearest wall and would probably roll along it. The top part, however, was falling in the opposite direction, toppling over toward the Gate and, ultimately…

“Amad!” Dís screamed, and only then did Thorin realise she was watching from over his shoulder.

“Don’t watch!” he roared, tucking his sister back into the crook of his shoulder, but she struggled with all her ten-year old might. “Dís, don’t watch!”

Frerin’s step faltered. He almost tripped, but Thráin came up and grabbed his free arm.

Together, they rushed out of Erebor at the same time the pillar crashed down, effectively destroying what was left of the battlements and sealing not only the Gate, but Frís’ fate as well.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin awoke with a start, biting off the scream that had been on the tip of his tongue.

A quick glance at the fauntling sleeping on his chest reassured him. Thankfully, Frodo had not been jostled awake by the sudden movement. Thorin shifted on Bilbo’s bed, adjusting the lad in his arms to have him rest in the crook of his shoulder rather than under his chin, and allowed his mind to wander.

He had not dreamt about his mother’s death in a while. Last time had been in the Blue Mountains, shortly after Kíli’s birth, inexplicably; the memory had been so painfully vivid that sleep had eluded him for days.

If Frís’ brutal demise was a wound, the aftermath was the rot settling in. With Thrór mourning the loss of his treasure, Thráin grieving for the One that had been torn from him and two shell-shocked younger siblings – adding to that the weight of hundreds of homeless, wounded dwarves who looked up to the royal line of Durin as though they would miraculously make the dragon disappear – Thorin had been the one to take charge. He had felt helpless on the best of days, and utterly miserable on the worst. Hadn’t it been for Frerin’s and Dís’ happy smiles whenever he returned from scouting or hunting parties, he would have thrown it all to Durin’s Bane.

Thrór’s numbness over the loss of his treasure had died out on the road, at the same time Thráin’s anguish grew without his One. It had broken Thorin’s heart to see his father, once an unflinching wall of strength, scuttle away from camp at night to sob his throat out where he thought nobody could hear. At that time, Thorin had been glad to be without a One, to be free of the Longing so many young dwarves spoke of. It would spare him the pain of one day being torn from his loved half and reduced to a helpless lump.

“He’s asleep?”

But now… now he knew better.

Thorin nodded slowly as Bilbo walked in and carefully sat on the edge of the bed. “He was exhausted, rightfully so. There is much to process for such a young mind.” The dwarf gently combed Frodo’s curls back from where they laid, wet and matted, on the boy’s forehead. “How did the conversation with your cousin go?”

Bilbo snorted. “As well as can be expected. She doesn’t care much about me being Frodo’s Guardian, she made that bit very clear. Her claim is that Frodo would be happier and more… fit for society if he were to be raised by a ‘normal’ family – hers, I reckon she meant. She has a young lad, Lotho I think, he only has a few years on Frodo. Lobelia seems certain that they would be great siblings, growing up.”

“And what says you to this?”

Bilbo paused, as though thinking his answer through, and Thorin allowed him time to do so.

Of course, the whole predicament was disarmingly easy to solve. All Bilbo had to do was tell Lobelia that he relinquished his claim over Frodo as his Guardian and hand him over to another family to raise him. As a Dwarf, Thorin was horrified at the prospect of both breaking a contract – even an unwritten one – and giving up a child, but the hobbits of the Shire did not seem to hold oaths and rules in high regards. Unless food and gardening were involved.

No, the simple fact that Bilbo was struggling to find his words was proof that he was, at the very least, considering raising Frodo himself. The prospect brought a bubble of warmth in Thorin’s chest. The King had long since resigned himself to the fact that he would never be a father; first because his priorities when he was in exile had taken him elsewhere, and then because his One was male – definitively so. He had stuffed the idea of fatherhood deep into the recesses of his mind, burying it under happiness at finding the other half of his soul and getting to share in the wealth of Erebor with him until the end of their days.

But now, with a small child in his arms and his mind running wild with ideas to make Erebor a safe place for a bare-footed faunt? Now the prospect of fatherhood – even in name only – shyly peeked from the back of his mind, wondering if it was safe to come out in the open.

Still, the decision laid with Bilbo, and Thorin would not rob him of it or try to sway him.

“The final word will be Frodo’s,” the shireling said softly, untangling Thorin’s braid from where it had caught on the clasp on the dwarf’s collar. The King’s heart swelled at the casual familiarity of it. “But no matter how much I loved Drogo and Primula, there is nothing left for me in the Shire and I will not remain here. So, if you are still amenable to the idea… will you allow Erebor to be Frodo’s home, should he choose to go with us?”

Finally, Thorin allowed the grin he had been holding back to bloom over his features.

“Ghivashel, you need not ask.”


	34. Smiths

Mahal knew Bilbo loved his dwarves with all his heart.

A handful of years ago, the hobbit had hardly seen a single dwarf, let alone talked to them. Now, he had a whole mountain full of the bearded fellows who would soon be looking up to him – something that still made him a little green around the gills when he truly thought about it – and a smaller number who he was happy to share his waking hours with.

But there was something to be said about an early morning walk to the farmers' market to pick the ripest tomatoes and the nicest pork chops for lunch, all alone without a grumbling child of Aüle on your heels.

It was a beautiful day, much as the rest of the week had been. Sunny, with whisps of white clouds streaking the blue of the skies. Bilbo smiled at the thought that with that blessed weather and a bit of luck, it was only a matter of days until the convoy from the Blue Mountain reached the Shire. Hopefully, they would need a couple of days to gather supplies and they would all be able to enjoy the festivities of Midsummer's Day – and eat one last good, earthy meal before the long trip back to Erebor and the dried rations that were sure to accompany them on the road.

With every day bringing them closer to seeing Dís again, Thorin and his nephews' amenable mood kept increasing. So naturally, when Bofur pointed out that their ponies would need new horseshoes for the long journey back to Erebor, Thorin offered to make them from old gardening tools he had found in Bilbo's shed.

“I would maybe need to buy some ores from the market,” Thorin had mused, scratching his growing beard. “I have seen a fellow with a large green hat, from Bree I think. He had iron and copper ores, I would simply need a proper fire pit and something to use as an anvil. Something flat but also round, to shape the horseshoes.”

“It's only a few hours' ride to Bree,” Bilbo had shrugged. “Are you sure you want to go through all this trouble when you can buy all the horseshoes you need from a blacksmith there?”

Thorin had scowled. “I will not buy something that can be crafted in as much time as it would take you to saddle your pony. Back in Dunland, I used to make about two hundreds of horseshoes each day, provided I found the proper ores. This will be easy.”

Bilbo had not dared to object. True to his word, Thorin had sought out the green-hated hobbit's stall in the market the following morning and had bought something near to his weight in iron ores – probably making the hobbit's week, judging by the smile that had lit up the fellow's whole face.

A little touch of dwarven magic later, and an open-air smithy had sprouted near the ponies' pen in Bilbo's yard. Oh, he had frowned quite a bit at that, but Thorin had sworn that he would put the garden back to its original state before it was time to leave for the Lonely Mountain. And when Thorin swore, well, he could generally be trusted. Generally.

As long as the children kept away from the fire, all was good.

Of course, word travelled faster than a Rhosgobel rabbit in Hobbiton, and it wasn't long before the first curious strollers 'happened' to walk by Bag End to have a look at the swinging hammers. At first, it was only a few indiscreet glances and a mutter or two about the waste of garden space; but then, one lady had gathered her courage and approached a working Thorin with a twisted hoe, expecting a rebuttal but walking out of the improvised smithy with a repaired tool and a large smile.

So naturally, every morning before the fire was even lit in the makeshift forge, a small line of chattering hobbits bearing gardening or cooking wares in various states of disarray never failed to gather. Thorin had been put off at first but had taken it all in stride, somewhat happy that he had been 'accepted' after all. In a weird, hobbit way.

Thorin had found a true purpose while waiting for his sister and his kin to reach the Shire. Even if it was simply straightening frying pans or soldering broken sickles back together, the King worked diligently several hours a day, ate heartily and found sleep effortlessly. And seemed all the happier for it all.

Sometimes, Dwalin would join him in the forge and help. A few hobbits in the line would shift their weights at the sight of the bare-chested, tattooed bald dwarf bending steel as though it was leather and wonder if they really needed that pot fixed. It never failed to make Bilbo chuckle, especially since he knew he would have had the same reaction before the quest for Erebor. So, in a show of good will, the master of Bag End invited his neighbours to wait for their repaired items inside where a spot of tea and a plate of buttered scones awaited.

And if Bilbo decided to linger in front of the window near the oven to steal glances at a certain King’s sweat-soaked, powerful shoulder-blades, well, that was his own business, thank you very much.

Bilbo sighed and adjusted the basket on his arm, his bare feet finding the way to the next market stall on their own. To be truthful, he hadn’t seen much of his suitor these last few days. The best part of their days were spent apart – Thorin in the forge, Bilbo entertaining guests and children alike with stories and picking out which item would follow him into his new life as a Consort – as well as their nights. Frodo refused to sleep anywhere outside of Bilbo’s bed, so the dwarf had retreated back to his bedding in one of the guestrooms to sleep away the exhaustion of his days at the forge.

The lad was doing remarkably well at day. Bilbo knew that, due to his young age, Frodo did not fully understand the concept of death and its implications. The initial sadness had worn off, replaced by the knowledge that he would not see his parents for a very long time but that, eventually, they would come back. Bilbo did not have it in him to tell the fauntling otherwise; for the moment, it would be enough. Especially since Frodo’s nights were restless and riddled with nightmares.

Fortunately, he had a small army of dwarves to keep him entertained throughout the day, be it Bofur taking him out to feed the ponies or Thorin making small misshapen animals with iron scraps – ravens, wolves and boars, he said, but they were essentially lumps with tiny spikes in lieu of legs. Still, Frodo enjoyed them.

Maybe today would be a good day to ask the lad. About Erebor. Yes, maybe today was the day.

With a newfound spring in his step, Bilbo walked up Bagshot Row with his large basket filled to the brim with goods from the market. In his yard, the forge was not yet lit – it would still be some time before second breakfast, after all – and the ponies were quiet, calmly licking dew from grass blades and low leaves. Early birds in the trees were chirping, the bees were buzzing around the daisies, everyone was preparing for the day ahead.

Time for a certain pack of dwarves to do the same.

Bilbo balanced his heavy basket on one arm to twist the green door open.

He was not greeted by loud snores, as he usually would, but a piercing scream that froze his blood right in his veins.

Frodo.

Bilbo dropped his basket and ran. He didn’t care that the eggs were probably broken or that he had left the door hanging wide open. Or that he had left Sting in his bedroom and the only ‘weapon’ on the way was an old candlestick – which did not offer much in the way of protection, in all honesty. But time was of the essence and Bilbo rushed toward the source of the terrified screaming, his mind blank except for the need to find Frodo.

The sound came from the master bedroom, where Bilbo had left the lad to sleep in earlier in the morning. Was it another nightmare? Perhaps it was only a stubborn bad dream, but Frodo usually whimpered and rolled up into a ball when he had one of those; never had he cried out in this fashion.

Bilbo’s doubts turned to ice-cold terror when he reached the round brown door and other noises carried through: deep, feral growls. Sweat broke out on his forehead from his sudden sprint as well as naked fear. What kind of foul beast had snuck its way into Bag End to corner the fauntling? Was it a warg, much like the one that had attacked Thorin a few evenings back?

Bilbo tried to remember exactly where he had stored Sting in his bedroom and wondered if he could burst in and grab it before whatever creature was inside attacked either him or Frodo.

Another growl and scream ripped those thoughts from his mind and Bilbo kicked the door open with what he hoped was a convincing battle cry – but really, a ten year-old dwarfling could have done better – his candlestick at the ready.

Had he known how ridiculous he would look anyway, he would have paid little mind to either his shout or his weapon.

Frodo was curled up on the large bed, which would be the normal thing to do for a fauntling being attacked by a large beast. Only... the large beast in question was not quite what Bilbo had in mind.

Thorin straightened from his looming position over the bedding and pulled back the red blanket that covered him to reveal his bearded face. “Yes? What is it? Can't a dragon pillage a city in peace in these realms?” the King grunted in what Bilbo had come to label his 'joking' tone.

The hobbit's grip on the candlestick faltered and he lowered the makeshift weapon. “I... I thought... I mean, I heard...” Bilbo stammered lamely. “Oh dear...”

“Yes, if that is all, you may now leave us.” Thorin tucked the red blanket back over his head and brought his attention back to Frodo. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Hand over the gold and then I will eat you!”

“Never!” Frodo shouted, his little high-pitched voice a striking contrast to Thorin's great booming one. “Bad, bad dragon!”

The little lad's mock defiance dissolved into shrieks of laughter when Thorin dove in and made good on his threat to 'eat' Frodo, one bearded rub at a time.

“You two don't mind me,” Bilbo grumbled, aware that there was no chance either the dragon or the poor victim could hear him over peals of laughter and furious growls. “I'll just... go and fetch those groceries I dropped at the door...”

Bilbo deposited the candlestick on a nearby shelf and exited the room, closing the door on the shameless ruckus inside. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, not sure if he should feel sheepish, amused or aggravated.

_Peaceful days, indeed._

 

* * *

 

 

“So, a few days before the Festival, huge parchments are hung at one end of the marketplace,” Bilbo said, poking at the large lemon cake in the oven with the tip of a knife. Any minute now. “There is one parchment for each category of the year. Some may change, but most are key events.”

“Who decides which trial stays and which doesn't?” Kíli asked, for once sitting still at the kitchen table. The promise of cake was enough to keep the young dwarf focused on one conversation.

“The elders, the Mathom society, the Thain,” Bilbo counted off, stealing one glance through the window. The last 'customer' had left about one hour ago but Thorin and Dwalin were still at the forge. Luckily, they looked like they were putting away hammers for the day. And right in time for tea. “Anyone is free to speak their mind, of course, but as long as food, ale and music are there, hobbits will go with anything, really.”

“So you write your name on the parchment of the trial you want to participate in?” Fíli asked. “How many must you choose?”

“Oh, there's no clear rule about that,” Bilbo smiled, poking the lemon cake again. Perfect. “You don't even have to choose one. But it is good form to at least pick one, if only for sport. Two is acceptable as well. But three or more, well... nothing forbids it, per say, but it would come across as a bit greedy. I, personally, usually stick to conkers but on good years I try the tomato contest.”

“Conkers and tomatoes?” Bofur asked from his seat at one end of the table.

Bilbo chuckled, snatching a tea towel to safely remove the cake from the oven. “What, did you expect archery and swordsmanship? Did you forget we are speaking about the Shire? The closest thing to weapons we have here are darts. And Farmer Maggot's old deaf donkey, but you cannot rely on that one. Here, Bofur, could you cut the cake?”

Bilbo's back did not feel much like bending over the table to cut the cake. He had spent the entire afternoon submitting his smial to his Baggins skills, scrubbing and dusting Bag End from top to bottom. With the knowledge that Dís, his future sister-in-law, could literally drop by at any given time, he was anxious to keep his home pristine. He was almost certain that it did not matter one bit to Dwarves, but he wanted to make a good first impression. In that sense, he was fighting with the weapons he had long since mastered: cleaning, cooking and politeness.

As for the rest, well, he had the remainder of his life in Erebor to learn.

“Sounds fun,” Kíli grinned, though whether he was genuinely interested in the Shire's Midsummer activities or simply happy that he would soon devour his piece of the lemon cake, Bilbo would not bet. “If Mother arrives in time, do you think we might stay for the party? It will be long before Erebor's repairs allow for balls or grand celebrations.”

Bilbo had to be careful not to cringe. As much as he was happy that Thorin and his nephews would soon be reunited with their closest remaining family member, he could not help but be worried about the day Dís would actually set foot in Bag End. The golden-haired Baggins had come to know quite a bit about Dwarves and their ways; he knew what kind of scrutiny strangers, especially from another race, found themselves under upon a first meeting with a child of Mahal. 

Not to mention that Dís' temper was often discussed among the Company and they rarely painted her as... overly forthcoming.

“I don't see why not,” Bilbo shrugged. “We can keep an eye out for the parchments on the marketplace, they should be here before your mother.”

“You don't have Midsummer's Day in your mountain?” Frodo asked innocently from his seat on Bombur's lap.

“We do, little one,” Fíli smiled, reaching over to poke Frodo's cheek. “We simply do not celebrate it as you do. But we have a lot of other festivals: Durin's Day, Yule, and many others.”

But Frodo still seemed distraught. “But Midsummer's Day is the most important,” he said quietly.

“Well, tell you what,” Kíli chirped, “when you come to Erebor we'll make Midsummer's Day an official thing, so you can enjoy it each year, what do you say to that?”

Bilbo's back went straight as a ramrod at the young dwarf's words. Had Kíli really... well... the hobbit had rather planned to breach the subject with his little charge in the relative peace of the evening, while everyone else was too busy sharpening daggers or enjoying a pipe in the front yard. Now, the cat was out of the bag and Bilbo's carefully-laid plans had gone out the window thanks to Kíli's quick mouth.

So, nothing unusual then.

Bilbo chanced a glance at the fauntling who had become very still in Bombur's lap. Frodo's big blue eyes were fixated on Thorin's youngest nephew; fortunately, they were filled with disbelief rather than distrust. “I can come to your mountain?” he asked quietly, sounding very much his age at that moment. “I can... go on an adventure, like Uncle Bilbo did?”

“Of course you can,” Kíli beamed, losing twenty years on his true age by that simple act. “Now, there probably won't be trolls, or wargs or dragons, but you can see Erebor and maybe even Elves, should they come visit!”

Frodo smiled wide but quickly reined his enthusiasm in and turned to Bilbo. “Uncle Bilbo,” he began tentatively. “Can we go to Erebor? Please?”

_Oh, my poor boy..._

“Well,” Bilbo said, trying to keep his deep uneasiness in check, “it _is_ a long journey, Frodo. Very, very far away from the Shire. If you go, you may not be able to come back here and see your friends for many years. Are you certain that it is what you want?”

Frodo seemed to ponder the idea for a little while. Bilbo ignored the dwarves' offended stares; if Frodo was to make that life-changing decision right then in Bag End's kitchen, a few minutes before tea, he needed to be made aware of the downsides of it, too. No matter how young he was.

“If I don't go to Erebor, can I stay here with you instead?” the lad asked, his youthful brow creased in worry.

Bilbo sighed and sat at the table next to Bombur, who had put one enormous paw on Frodo’s head for comfort. “I still have not told anyone about this, so you will be the very first one to know. I am not staying in Hobbiton, Frodo. When Thorin’s sister arrives, I will go East to Erebor, and I will not come back.”

Frodo’s breath caught in a small gasp at his uncle’s words. “Why?”

 _Why?_ Funny, how Bilbo had never directly addressed the question but now found himself trying to put words on the answer. Why would he leave everything he had ever known for a life under a mountain that had nearly cost him his life, surrounded by dwarves he had only known for a handful of years?

Well, mainly because he could not bear to be parted from Thorin, not when each day brought him closer to the firm belief that their hearts belonged together. He would waste away, one day at a time, knowing he was denying himself the greatest joy of his life.

Then, there was the rest of the Company, and how they had given Bilbo’s life a purpose, a meaning. They had faced death together, they had cried in sorrow and laughed in victory together. Such a bond could never be tarnished.

Why was he leaving for Erebor? Because nothing was holding him back in the Shire, because he could not bear going back to his little bachelor routine, because there was more to life than constantly putting up with Lobelia’s nagging, because…

“Because I want to,” Bilbo said softly, offering his nephew a gentle smile.

Again, Frodo paused to mull over those words, but it wasn’t long until his gaze met his uncle’s again. “I want to, too,” he said, eyes firm and serious under his dark bangs.

Bilbo’s smile grew a tad as relief washed over him. “Then you are welcome to live in Erebor. But I would ask that you keep thinking about it from time to time until we have to leave, just to be sure that this is what you want.”

Frodo nodded gravely. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of the front door being pushed open.

“Ah, that would be our renowed blacksmiths,” Bilbo said lightly, rising from his seat. “And right in time for tea, too. Bofur, you can fetch the small plates for the cake. Fíli, be a good lad and watch the kettle, the water should be just about ready. I will see to it that the newest heroes of Hobbiton remember to leave their boots by the door.”

As a matter of fact, they had not. But that was not the extend of it.

Thorin and Dwalin had entered Bag End in the middle of a little friendly squabble; a boyish game they sometimes engaged into when they felt particularly at ease. They had rogguish grins adorning their bearded faces and kept pushing one another's shoulders, causing them to stumble and grab whatever was in reaching range to steady themselves.

Leaving black imprints not only on the floor with their boots, but also on the walls and beams with their filthy hands.

“What in the Green Lady's good name do you think you are _doing_?” Bilbo hissed at the sight of his hard afternoon work gone like the wind. 

The two warriors stopped in their tracks and turned to face the fuming hobbit. All manners of pleased grins were wiped from their whiskers quicker than a wild rabbit fleeing a pack of wargs upon sighting him.

“Bilbo, dear heart,” Thorin began tentatively, clearing his throat. That lump of a King had mercifully sensed that something was wrong. “Is it not time for tea?” 

“For tea? _For tea_? Mahal and Yavanna both grant me patience, or so help me!” Bilbo growled, grasping at his hair on either side of his face – strange, really, how he could practically feel it greying under his fingers. 

He would not curse, no he would not, not when there were young ears in his household. But oh, he certainly wanted to, and the puzzled look that passed on between Thorin and Dwalin only fueled that desire.

“Are we that late?” Thorin ventured in that cautious tone again. “We lost track of time for a moment when Master Hamfast brought his cart and we fixed the wheels, but from the position of the Sun, I was fairly certain-”

“It's not about the Sun, or tea, or anything that goes on in that overheated playhouse of yours!” Bilbo snapped angrily, letting go of his hair to wave his hands in the direction of the two dwarves. “The entrance hall!” 

“What about it?” Dwalin asked gruffly, crossing his dirty arms over his bare chest. Bilbo shuddered at the mere thought of grime mixing in with sweat and hair over the muscled expanse of flesh. 

“It's clean! Or rather it was, before you mountain trolls felt like strolling in with your filthy boots and grubby hands!” 

By all means Bilbo had not planned to shout. But the thought of hours of work gone to waste in less than five minutes irked him to no end. A little mess created by children at play, he could deal with. But this? Two grown dwarves messing up the whole entrance hall when they should know better? It was enough to make what hair remained on top of his burnt feet stand on end.

The comment about boots seemed to set Thorin and Dwalin in motion. Hastily, much like chastened children would, they grabbed at their boots to pull them off before Bilbo could tell them to do it outside and leave the thrice-forsaken contraptions on the doorstep.

As a result, King and Captain were hopping on one foot in their haste to escape the master of the house's ire. Profusely leaving more dark smudges on the walls where they leaned their shoulders or hands to avoid falling over, and scattering bits of coal disloged from their boots all over the floor and the carpet.

When Dwalin lost balance and dropped his left boot to the floor where it released every little rock and speck of dirt it possessed, Bilbo just about lost it.

“That's it!” he roared – and he would later reflect that he could make a convincing impression of a furious Lobelia, if he put his mind to it. “Out! Out with the two of you!” 

Now bare-footed and panting, both dwarves stared at Bilbo. “Out?” Dwalin rasped.

“Yes, _out_! As in outside, out in the open, away from here, anywhere but here!” Bilbo marched on and easily pushed Thorin and Dwalin toward the still open door. They were much more obedient than they should have; probably because they did not wish to anger the hobbit any further. “I don't want to see you again before you are clean enough to walk in this smial without leaving enough tracks for a blind orc to find you! Use what you want; the neighbour's washroom, the lake, even the ponies' bloody drinking through, I don't care!” 

“Bilbo, I swear, ghivashel, we never intended to-”

“Out, out, out!” Bilbo punctuated each “out” with a small kick to a dwarven bottom. It did not help that they were taller than him and his thighs hurt from scrubbing the floor and furniture all afternoon. “And if there is the smallest trace of dirt under your fingernails when you do come back, Mahal won't be any help to you!”

With one last furious look at the two culprits – who at least had the decency to look remorseful – Bilbo slammed the door shut and leaned his back on the wooden surface. Pinching his nose, the hobbit forced himself to count to twenty in Sindarin and back to one.

When he opened his eyes, however, the nameless mess that so recently had been his pristine entrance hall was still there. Coal and all.

Oh, well. It would still be there after tea. Miracles rarely occurred in the Shire.

 

* * *

 

 

“I'm sorry I shouted,” Bilbo grumbled, picking up a roll of white gauze from the leather bag that contained a few of Bag End's medical supplies. “I was tired and annoyed. I probably should have kept my temper in check.” 

“It would be ill-advised of me to comment on anyone else's temper,” Thorin said softly, hiding a little wince when Bilbo turned his hands over to check for burns and cuts. “We were careless.” 

“That you were, and I reckon your dirtying days are over after this. Still, I should have known better.” Bilbo frowned at a particularly red mark between the dwarf's thumb and forefinger. “Do you make a habit of holding red hot iron with you bare hands?” 

Thorin chuckled quietly. “No. This is simply a blister, the skin was torn off. It has been a few years since I last wielded a hammer from sunrise to sunset.”

“If second breakfast is sunrise and tea is sunset, then yes, I believe you.” 

Thorin and Dwalin had not resurfaced before supper, long after Bilbo had set the entrance to rights again. Quiet as mice, they had entered Bag End on their tiptoes, leaving their washed boots outside to dry. After a quick change of clothing, the two dwarves had quietly found their way to the dining room and silently helped to set the table.

Throughout the entire meal, Bilbo had not breathed a single word to them, nor did either Thorin or Dwalin seek to take part in any conversation. So when the meal ended, the table was cleared and everyone began to depart for their respective beds, Thorin had been surprised when the hobbit asked him to stay seated and left to fetch a medium-sized leathed satchel.

“I believed I mentionned something about dirt under fingernails,” Bilbo said with a frown, splaying Thorin's fingers to have a better sight. When the dwarf visibly straightened, he smiled. “Peace, dearest. It was a joke.” 

They must have gone to great lengths to come back as clean as they were. Even their beards seemed soft and devoid of any grime.

“And where, may I ask, did you two go to wash yourselves?” Bilbo asked idly, reaching into his bag for a jar of salve. 

The light green paste was used to soothe burns and heal bruised skin, from what Bilbo had been told. He had bought it the day before, at the market, from a young Brandybuck girl. In fact he had bought four jars, knowing full well that it would come in handy thanks to the forge that had become his closest neighbour. The poor girl probably thought that Bilbo was the clumsiest cook this side of the Brandywine River.

“The lake was our best option,” Thorin said, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. “You should have let us clean the hall. The mistake was ours.”

“Dwalin wields a broom as delicately as he does a battle axe. And you, my dear, are more skilled in wiping out a pack of orcs than a hall of tiles, no offence meant. The day I want Bag End destroyed, I know who I should turn to, thank you very much,” Bilbo snorted. He scooped up a good amount of cool paste and began to apply it to Thorin's hands, paying extra attention to the abused knuckles. “The lake, you say? Please tell me nobody will be dreaming of hairy dwarven bottoms in the Shire tonight.”

“May I remind you that you are not speaking to my nephews? We were well-hidden by bushes and rocks,” Thorin huffed. Thankfully, the salve Bilbo was spreading on his bruised skin did not seem to sting. “Your people's dreams are safe on that account. Now, I would have you speak to me. Why did you not let us clean the hall? You usually let everyone clean the rooms, wash the dishes or do the laundry, but this past week you have taken it all upon yourself. Why?”

Bilbo shrugged in what he hoped was a casual way. “You all have been very busy, with the forge and the children and whatnot. I thought I could at least do that.”

“I may use the word incorrectly but I reckon this is 'poppycock', Bilbo. Now, tell me.”

Bilbo winced; not only was he being called by his given name in a stern tone but the word 'poppycock' in Thorin's mouth did not even sound remotely funny. Times were dire indeed.

“I don't know, Thorin, I... I guess I am just a little tad nervous.”

The dwarf seemed put out upon hearing this. “Nervous? That is very unlike you.”

“Oh, so what? Is there some dwarven ridiculous decree about Hobbits being forbidden to be nervous?” Bilbo snapped with a bit more snark than intended, squeezing Thorin's fingers a bit too hard.

To his credit, the King did not even blink, from neither his One's bite nor the harsh treatment of his bruised hands. “No. There is not. I am merely curious: you stood up to Azog when I could not, you jumped into battle against thousands of orcs, you willingly faced a living, fire-breathing dragon. So pray tell, Bilbo the Brave, what is making you nervous?”

Bilbo sighed and mumbled something under his breath he hoped Thorin would catch.

“You will have to excuse me, my hearing is not as good as when I was seventy. You were saying?”

_Toss it all!_

“I said,” Bilbo began cautiously, “that I may be a little anxious about your sister's arrival. Maybe.” 

The bovine look Thorin threw at him reminded the hobbit of Farmer Maggot's cows. “My sister.”

“The very same.” 

“My sister? Dís?” 

“I do believe you only have one sister. That is, unless you haven't told me everything.” 

“My little sister is the reason behind that... panic attack you had earlier?” 

“It was certainly _not_ a panic attack!” Bilbo hissed through gritted teeth. “Confounded dwarf! Is there really something so disconcerting in trying to make a good first impression on somebody who matters to you and that I am likely to spend the remainder of my life crossing paths with? Not to mention that if the way you and your nephews talk about her is anything to judge by, she is worth every dragon that ever hatched!” 

Bilbo almost slapped a hand over his mouth, as a fauntling would hoping that those words had not really come out into the open.

Sadly, they had. Oh no, had he... had he really spoken harshly of the only close family Thorin had left? He was in for a bout of scowling and brooding for the remainder of the week, for certain. That was, unless there was some kind of duel involved with insulting a member of a dwarf family, a female no less.

But Thorin did something Bilbo could not have foreseen. He laughed.

“Every dragon that ever hatched! Aye, that's a nice one,” the dwarf rumbled, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. “Be sure to tell her when she comes here. She will be proud.” 

“So... you are not angry at me? For comparing your sister to a dragon?” Bilbo ventured. Could it be that Thorin's spirits were so high?

“Believe it or not, Dís has been compared to many unsavoury things along the course of her life. A dragon may be one of the nicest. Besides,” and there Thorin's voice dropped to a deep murmur as the dwarf squeezed Bilbo's fingers between his own, “I find it very difficult to be angry at you for any period of time.” 

When Thorin tugged at his intended's hand to deposit a prickly kiss on the knuckles, Bilbo could feel his cheeks heating up as though he was a besotted tween. Bebother that dwarf and his charming ways.

“My sister is nowhere near the heartless monster that her sons paint her out to be,” Thorin pursued, the corner of his mouth twitching in unease when Bilbo massaged the green salve into his palms. “She is merely fierce in protecting her family, whether from a pack of orcs or a bunch of ill-speaking counselors. She is much rasher than me in that aspect. You may choose not to believe it, but I am the more sensible of the two siblings.” 

“Wonderful,” Bilbo sighed, unrolling the gauze to wrap his suitor's hands. “And you ask why I am nervous...” 

“You have no reason to be nervous. You have become part of her family and thus fallen under her ruthless protection. You helped win back Erebor, you saved our lives, you keep Fíli and Kíli in check, you literally kick me out of the smial whenever it pleases you and you make the best cinammon rolls this side of the Misty Mountains.” Thorin allowed a playful grin to stretch his features. “She will positively adore you.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
